An Empty Bunker
by fantasticly-anonymous
Summary: Cas's death has been hard on Dean. Sam's been worried about Dean. Cas isn't quite as gone as the brothers believe. Rated T for some Winchester appropriate language.
1. Brothers

"Cas!" Dean started awake, the sound of his own voice and an imagined, feather light touch against his brow breaking him from rest. The disturbing memory of a dream skittering away to nestle itself in a dark corner of his mind until the next time his eyes closed.  
He pulled himself onto one elbow and checked his room. No one else. Just himself and his inability to let go of... someone who could always make him smile.

Time for coffee! Unless his tired eyes closed on him before he could crawl out of bed and slip on some foot protection.

He ended up bare-footing it to the center isle of their spacious kitchen, pretty sure some monster under his bed had eaten his house shoes, taking a bar stool seat there and staring at the empty coffee pot for a good minute and a half. _Willing_ the thing to fill itself with a hearty, medium arabica blend of bitter bliss.  
Alas, it stayed empty and the charm of having himself a cup o' joe at... 4 or whenever drained away faster the longer he stared at the disappointing machine.

In the end, he slouched over to their industrial grade refrigerator, pulled out the creamer, poured himself a mug, and nuked it for a half minute. Counting the rotations until it made his incredibly tired brain spin and he had to force himself to inspect his fingernails instead. They could use a buffing.

Milk heated, sugar he was _definitely_ not telling Sam about added, and he took a seat opposite where he had earlier. So he could keep an eye on the door. Or, at least so his back wouldn't be facing it.  
Always felt weird when he sat with his back to a door. Even if he didn't know one was there when he picked the seat. Like something was gonna come around the corner and finally get that lethal jump on him.

Whatever. Milk time.

He nursed his drink, holding it between both hands and staring at the stainless steel range where he liked to cook burger patties. Mainly for himself, seeing as Sam preferred... _other_ forms of food. Rabbit food mostly. Dean preferred the rabbit, but, eh, whatever, Stanford.  
He looked around the half-lit kitchen, reading any words or legible labels he could without having to move. Not looking forward to what might happen if he ran out of things to occupy his unhappy mind with. He could feel thoughts, potentially even _emotions_ flitting around in there and tonight wasn't even **close** to a great time for inspecting any of those bastards. Not if he wanted to be able to function tomorrow, and he already knew he had to.  
Sam was home, after all.

When the extra sweet dregs of his turbinado lactose treat dripped out the ceramic mug and down his waiting gullet, Dean swallowed, realizing he was fresh out of things to do. Aside from maybe washing the cup, but _damned_ if he was gonna get his hands wet this late at night. No thanks! Cold feet was plenty to contend with without needing to find something to dry icicle fingers on.  
He could wash it in the morning.

As Dean slid himself off the stool, ready to resign himself to a wonderful night of roaming the bunker _not_ sleeping, the seat next to his caught his eye. Giving it a good stare, he remembered that that selfsame bar stool had been missing a single foot piece when he and Sam'd moved in to the bunker. Unwilling to do anything too permanent to remedy the situation, Dean'd stuck a wood and linen bound reference book under the short leg and crossed his fingers that his giraffe of a brother would never notice.  
He hadn't, so Dean just pretended the chair was in perfect condition and plain never sat in it. Also made sure it was at the least favorite seating at the island for a certain someone who _really_ wouldn't be happy about sitting on a... hm, hundred-ten year old book on Rugaru, Their Hunting Patterns, And The Preferred Methods For Disposing Of Their Carcasses.

Dean snickered to himself as the stool canted, looking sad now that he'd taken the gift he'd so graciously bestowed upon it over two years ago.  
"Don't worry, buddy," he said, giving the seat a pat, "I'll get this back to you. Before Sasquatch notices. Promise," he assuaged as he crossed his heart, retook his perch, and set the book on the island top. _Ready_ for a little brush up on one of his least favorite job related creatures. Hell, he'd settle for flipping through a dictionary if it'd help keep his mind off...

The sigh that coincided with the opening of the ancient, surprisingly not dusty nor termite infected book was a pathetic noise, even to his own ears. A mix of frustration, utter exhaustion, uncertainty, and a dark tinge of mourning which scared the hell out of him. Which was exactly why Chapter One: A Taxonomy With Color Illustrations held his attention. _Raptly_.  
He couldn't afford to look away. Even when his eyes felt dry enough that rubbing at them might abrade the inside of his eyelids and _definitely_ not when the ghost of a winged shadow flitted at the skirts of his vision.

He'd been sleep deprived before. Knew that this was about the stage when reality and imagination started blending. Sometimes artfully, _painfully_ well.  
That starts happening; better to just keep your nose to the grinding stone and pour yourself another cup of... Right. No coffee.

Whatever.

The book wasn't as stuffy as he'd expected.  
It was _beyond_ what he'd been expecting.  
Sure the drawings were **uncanny** , like they were gonna jump out the page and smack you over the head or something, but every sentence stretched on and on and on and once you reached the halfway point, you'd forgotten where you'd started.

Sam would have loved it.

Chapter Two: Solo Hunting Patterns And The Potential For Familial Groups.  
Wow. That sounded nasty. Unfortunately, 'nasty' was exactly the kind of thing that kept someone in his line of work alive some days, so he skipped the last several pages of chappie one and skimmed over a few more things about Rugaru and how the monsters choose victims that'd put the fear of Chuck, er, _God_ in most anybody.

Dean ended up actually _learning_ something from that creepy, **long winded** dozen or so pages. But the following chapter completely lost him again.  
Who in their right mind wanted to know _anything_ about Identifying Sex, Potential Pack Role, Height And Build, And Majority Of Diet By Scat?  
And who in their obviously **wrong** mind would wanna _write_ about it in the first place?  
Still, it was something to do, so he kept at it.

As Dean read words that he knew had Latin, Greek, French and Hungarian derivations but also knew he'd _definitely_ never seen before in his life, he leaned more and more heavily on the island top. All those brand new ancient words weighing his head down in a way the mere _thought_ of attending college had years ago.  
Not even the advertisements of co-ed dorm rooms and no restrictions pertaining to alcohol in student living spaces had been enough to tempt him to those halls of higher learning. He'd already learned enough through hands on experience to get by as a hunter in a world of creatures that went bump in the night, and that was plenty for him, thank you very much.

Hadn't been plenty for Sam, for some weirded out reason. And definitely not plenty for their mom, as it turned out.  
...Was it plenty for Cas? Dean couldn't help wondering, ignoring an unexpected wetness finally relieving his scratchy eyes as his head sank the last few inches and the century old book became a makeshift pillow.

Dean wondered whether this was sleep coming back to _torment_ him further, or maybe, just maybe, let him get some rest.  
Only one way to find out, so he let out a breath, ignored the feeling of a tiny bead of water running down one half of his face, and allowed the tension all his worry was keeping locked up in his spine to bleed away.  
Within seconds, he was out.

Sam made a conscious decision to change his schedule after the passing and or misplacing of he and Dean's closest family members. Pretty sure that knowing that falling through rips in reality was a very real possibility would have disrupted his circadian rhythm anyway. At least this way he had control over _how_ it changed.

Besides: Dean wasn't- He was taking it pretty hard.

Sam had been aware from a preternaturally young age that dear old dad had a drinking problem. He'd also been aware from the day he saw Dean enjoy his first beer that alcoholism all too often runs in families.  
PSA on children's television. Pretty heavy add for a Saturday morning, but it'd helped prepare him for days of counting drinks and pilfering car keys and... generally watching out for things that might set off a bender.  
Things like loved ones dying.

So, yeah, an out of the blue twofer? He had his abacus out.

To his surprise, Dean had been really good about it since the funeral. Which the elder had overseen largely while sober.  
Sam hadn't seen him passed out on the furniture, not with the scent of alcohol wafting off of him anyway. He hadn't needed to remove all large casks of eighty year old scotch from the 'pantry', courtesy the Men Of Letters cook staff.  
In fact, it was almost as if Dean was on someone else's best behavior.

Sure, he was obviously buzzed around thirty percent of his observable waking hours, but, for Dean, that wasn't outlandish for a kickback and relax weekend. Let alone...

Sam'd kept track of the six packs Dean brought home along with groceries from the market, and the bags of bottles and cans that he or Dean recycled, and judging by the weight of those bags, nothing over the limit was going down. Especially considering he liked to join in often as he could. Make it as obvious as possible that his older brother didn't have to go it alone. That he _wasn't_ alone. That he still had his Sammy.

Besides: A cold beer and some melancholy company to commiserate after a terrible day? Sometimes, just what the doctor ordered.

So, no mysteriously vanished nor vanish _ing_ brandy or scotch, no secret midnight trips to local bars, and no daytime, non-food poisoning related barf sessions: kind of seemed like Dean had a handle on things, and if that wasn't a little off putting, Sam wasn't six foot four.  
Which, when you think about it, was sadder than the fact that they couldn't take time off for a proper mourning period.

Although, no matter Dean's reaction, Sam'd been fully aware from the moment he'd heard his brother's blood chilling shout for Cas, back at that summer house, by the rip in dimensions which he still couldn't wrap his head around, that he'd be doing _plenty_ of worrying. Plenty for the both of them.

Sam'd kept his, "Well, I'm knocking off,"s consistent, and had cut his bedtime routine down to bare bones. Getting himself into bed with lights out and tablet away a fair bit earlier than was his custom.  
He didn't need an alarm to wake him a handful of hours later, when any decent human who worked a day shift would be deep into REM, when he'd slip on a pair of soft soled shoes and make a round of the bunker. Indulging himself in starting and ending each night's ritualistic, paranoia indicative roamings, in Dean's hallway. Just close enough that he could hear if anything was amiss, and far enough that his steps wouldn't wake the born and bred hunter. If he was indeed sleeping.  
Though, Dean was rarely silent while awake, so Sam was fairly confident he wasn't.

This particular night, Sam waited at the mouth of Dean's hallway for a good two minutes, unable to peel himself away any sooner. Wishing that his older brother was more of a 'let's clear the air and just talk about it' kind of guy, rather than the 'emotions, what emotions?' kind. But, he supposed, at the end of the day, his taciturn way was just one of Dean's many charms.

Sam turned away from the hallway, suppressing a sigh and thinking the while that they were lucky the two of them communicated as well as they did. Sam and Dad's fights had been things of legend and the older he got, the more thankful Sam realized he was that the universe had given the brothers of the family Winchester the _ability_ , however infrequently exercised, to use their words. Congenially.  
In fact, he couldn't imagine Dean ever speaking at him the way their dad had on the daily.  
He'd take overprotective over overbearing any old-

"Cas!"

Sam stopped in his tracks, mind racing to keep up with his startled heart.  
'Cas'? Could Cas be back? Was he- No. Cas wasn't standing at the foot of his brother's bed, doing his best impression of a horror movie villain. Not tonight anyway. How could he be? Cas was...  
No, that was the unfortunately familiar sound of his older brother waking from a bad dream. Calling out, this time, for someone who he _knew_ was very, very out of reach.

When he heard the rifflings which signaled, "Stupid- where are they?", yep, Dean looking for his slippers, Sam hustled it into the closest room with a door which he was positive his brother wasn't heading to: A small library off the main hallway.

He held his breath as he listened through the door and watched an obviously barefooted shadow pass in that little light underneath, not interested in being found out by a Dean he had no way to tell the mood of.  
Nightmares usually made Dean less sociable, dredging up any number of a lifetime worth of horrifying and traumatic experiences which, as far as Sam knew, the older hunter had never spoken to anyone about.  
Save him, and that barely counted. Partly because he'd gone through many of those same situations _with_ Dean and therefor already knew what there was to know about them, but also because monosyllabic, stunted sentences punctuated by a shot glass hitting a bar shouldn't count as 'talking'.

Yeah. This was definitely one of those times when talking would be bottom of the list of things his older brother might be interested in, and considering the direction his plodding footsteps where headed, 'booze' just might be near the top.  
One way to find out.

Sam gave it a good ten count before opening the beautiful, hand finished library door, re-closing it, and heading the long way around their house to the opposite side of the kitchen, nearer his own room. In case he needed to make a quick retreat.  
He sneaked close enough to the doorway that he could hear the ticking of the old clock that hung in there, and kept his breathing quiet as possible. Forcing himself to refrain from scratching his nose when it started itching.  
Yeah, sure, as the years went by he was growing surer and surer that Dean was a tad hard of hearing, considering some days it felt like his favorite word was 'what', but he was also keenly aware that the guy was bar none, one of the most deadly keen hunters on planet earth.  
So, no scratching.

Wait. Was that the microwave whirring? Was Dean heating something in a mug without the smell of coffee permeating the entire lower level of the bunker?  
Not likely. Unless it was soup. And the guy didn't _feel_ like reaching the extra six inches to the right to grab himself a bowl.  
But, no. No food smells either. So what in the world?!

Sam stopped himself from barging right in there to see for himself what it was Dean was preparing for drinking, knowing that was a good way to get Dean's dander up and **fast**. Instead, he leaned on his years of on the job training and listened harder.  
He was adding... sugar? To _not_ coffee. Hm. Then he was taking a seat and _sipping_ whatever it was. **Quietly**. Since when did Dean do anything quietly?

Sam, feeling a vague twinge at the thought that he was basically eavesdropping, ran through a mental manifest of the contents of their fridge. Eventually, he narrowed down what the other Winchester could possibly've scrounged up that might warrant heating and the addition of sugar: Milk. And milk would indicate... Whoa.  
That his brother- _Dean_ _ **Winchester**_ , was trying to coax his body back to sleep. Sam never thought he'd see the day.  
Or night, as it were.

Blinking through his perplexion, Sam found himself at a loss. When had Dean... matured? Why was he behaving so responsibly? What had possessed him to treat himself with more care than he'd treat an indestructible punching bag? Who- Who was Dean talking to?

Leaning his head closer to the doorway, Sam's heart climbed back down into his chest as he realized the one-sided nature of the short conversation.  
Dean was talking to furniture. Great. And just when Sam'd thought his night couldn't get any stranger.  
Oh, great. The sound of a book being opened. If reading off hours wasn't out of character for Dean, Sam wasn't a Legacy member of the Men Of Letters.  
Then again, if the book had pictures, Dean could potentially be entertained for hours.

Right. Strike that. Wasn't in any way fair to Dean.  
Seriously though: it'd been a rare day indeed when Sam had seen his primary caretaker pouring over any kind of book unrelated to their job. So what had piqued the interest of the most dedicated hunter he'd spent much time around?  
Oh, right. It was probably that weird book Dean'd 'fixed' a lopsided stool by sticking it under the unintentionally short leg. Something about Rugaru And The Common Cold?  
Whatever the title, it was something that even Sam himself had deemed worthy only of serving as an unused chair's prosthetic foot. So why was Dean taking the time out of his night to read it?

The answer provided itself in the form of a head setting down on about a solid pound of wood pulp and ink.  
Like many a college student cramming before finals, Dean had studied until he'd passed out. Though, in this particular instance, Sam suspected that the falling unconscious part had been the _intended_ outcome as opposed to some unfortunate, early end to a study session.

Sam stood there, waiting until he was sure what he was hearing was indeed the breathing pattern of a snoozing Dean, then, with great care not to scuff the wall or floor, he crept to the absolute edge of the kitchen and peeked in.

Yep. Out like a light. And no alcohol in sight. 'Course, Dean had chosen pretty much the worst _possible_ place to pass out. Considering he wasn't twelve and had hated waking up from slouched over a table since an even earlier age than that. Always complaining at Sam for 'letting' him sleep like that when he knew it kinked up his neck something fierce.  
Standing in the doorway, Sam grew closer to certain with every passing tick of the somehow still functioning, forties era kitchen clock that his ridiculous brother was not going to start awake and walk back to bed on his own. An intervention was needed, and he was just the Winchester for the job.

Turning from the -and he was never admitting this to Dean's face- adorable sight at the center island, Sam wracked his brain until the information he needed rattled out. He'd be riiight back.

With less than one minute elapsed time, he was back at the mouth of the kitchen, slippers that he'd remembered seeing kicked off in front of their den television in hand. Ready to coax a hopefully up for a little sleepwalk Dean into them and back to bed.

Being a hunter himself, and knowing his brother pretty well, Sam was aware that assuming Dean _hadn't_ brought a weapon with him on his little late night run would be a very poor life choice. So he made his approach far more obvious, not bothering to mask the sound of his steps nor his breathing.  
It would be both safer and more comfortable for all parties if the guy probably drooling by then on a seriously old book was woken by ambient noise than by an unexpected touch. Sam wasn't interested in stitching anything up this late at night, nor in needing to drive a town over for an X-Ray. Not for him or Dean.  
So as he passed into the kitchen, he inhaled. Preparing to say-

"Dean?" And with the syllable, he stopped in his tracks, forgotten footwear falling from frozen fingers as he processed what he was seeing. Or _not_ seeing.  
"Dean?!"

Deciding panicking was _usually_ a useless endeavor, Sam gave himself a beat in which to think.  
Where was the most likely place to find his comatose brother, aside from where he'd **just** left him? Where could Dean _possibly_ have been spirited?  
Answer: his own personal bedroom.

So Sam quick walked it down the hall to the open door, one hand pulling out his phone in case he needed to start calling people.  
Jody'd be disappointed if her's wasn't the first number he dialed. His thumb was hovering over her number though, so disappointment was gonna be the last thing on her mind if it turned out Dean wasn't... right there in his bed. Looking like he'd never left it.

Which didn't make any sense. Sam could either hear or see most anything happening, coming, or going from the kitchen from their den. Especially considering all the electronics were powered down for the night and there was no other significant source of noise in the entire deserted bunker.  
Sure, he hadn't been _watching_ the hall connecting the kitchen to Dean's wing, but his body was a fine tuned hunting machine and his mind was sharp as a well made tack. How could he have missed a lumbering, potentially sleepwalking, full grown human stumbling around in his peripheral?  
Barely sounded possible.

Yet, there he was. Peaceful as a babe in a non flea infested manger. Sheets in place well enough that it looked almost as if he'd been tucked in.

Watching for one more incredulous minute, Sam decided the only thing for it was to chalk it up as a win and put _himself_ back in bed for the night.  
So, stopping off to do a quick tidy and recon in the kitchen, and finding no evidence of poltergeists, he did just that.  
Thoughts of better tomorrows dancing in his head.

Dean stood at his range, searing a raw half pound of ham down into a quarter pound of breakfast, when he started to feel actually awake for the first time that morning. The smell of heaven on a grill tickling his senses alive and getting his metabolism going better than a cup of that coffee he had brewing up would in about three minutes time.

He took a moment to pull a mug down in anticipation, then grabbed another and two plates while he was at it. Knowing Sam would be just as hungry as he was after his jog or whatever it was the Sasquatch got up to these mornings.  
The poor guy had looked sort of down the last... _recently_ , understandably, and Dean knew a good start to the day was important for a growing hunter.  
...Which Sam no longer was. Right. Then why the heck was he cooking for him? Damn, Sam had it easy!

Grunting as a bubble of oil spat on his bare forearm, he flipped the delicious slabs of pig flesh onto the breakfast plates and moved them onto the island to sit by the platter of fluffy eggs he'd already set out.  
"Sam! Foods up!" He called, vowing to himself that he wouldn't wait up for the not kid if the food started getting cold.

Speaking of cold: Coffee time!  
So he walked over to the machine and pulled the pot out from under the spout just as the last drops fell, poured out two mugs worth, and set those on the table by the steaming mounds of food. Fully aware there would be no leftovers once he and his Andre The Giant sized brother finally got his a-  
"Sammy, food's gettin' cold!" Dean snickered to himself, knowing how much Sam disliked both being called by his childhood nickname, and being called multiple times for any given reason. Aside from someone's imminent death.  
...Maybe he should just dig in. Stop thinking before he got himself in trouble.

As he reached for the back of a stool chair, he remembered that Sam liked to have a little greens with every meal and that, for some reason, the guy was never satisfied with green tomatoes in the breakfast scramble. So Dean walked over to the fridge, pinched something out of a translucent food bag, and placed it on the food at the designated 'Sam' place at the island table.

"Sam!"

"Yeah, Dean. I heard you and I'm here. Huh," the stilt on stilts said as he paused in the doorway. "Smells good."

"You say that like you're surprised," said Dean as he pulled out a chair and sat down. Disappointed that Sam didn't look _near_ as annoyed as he'd been hoping for.

"Heh. Is that tomatillo?"

"Hm? Oh, right. _That's_ what those little suckers are called."

"You cook them without knowing what they're called? Does that sound just a little unsafe to you?"

Dean scoffed and forked a good bunch of egg into his mouth before answering. "We kill stuff we don't know the name of. Pretty damn similar if you ask me."  
"'Sides, I **know** what they're called. Just didn't _remember_." Swallowing, he indicated the other place setting at the island.  
"Now sit down and eat your breakfast."

With an amused huff, Sam sat and scraped his chair closer, giving his food a good stare before opening his mouth. "You put garnishing on this, Dean?"

"Yeah, so?" Dean said around another mouth of breakfast. This time a small speck of grease dripping at the corner of his mouth, causing Sam to wipe at his face in order to hide his mirth at the sight.

"Uh, nothing, Dean. It's just, where did you _get_ -"

"Found it in the fridge. Now quit whining and start on your breakfast. Before the eggs congeal. And the tomatillo turns purple."

 _Really_ confused now, Sam picked up his fork and dug in. Wondering, as he cut a piece off of his ham, how in the world Dean could know the life expectancy of a green tomato but not remember the _name_ for one.  
He shrugged, figuring, life is full of mysteries. Like how Dean got to bed before he could walk back to the kitchen last night. Now that was one Sam would love an answer to.  
Looking up with the intention of broaching exactly that subject, a strange site caught Sam's eye.  
"Dean, why is there a feather in your hair?"

Dean reached up with his non-fork filled hand and pulled the little black feather from his head. Holding it in the light a good few seconds for inspection. "Dang. Pillow must've sprung a leak."

"Uh, Dean? Our pillows are filled with polyester fiberfill, not feathers. Same with the comforters," he supplied at Dean's intake of air.

"Well, how 'bout the beds?" Asked an older brother who was late to his next bite of pork.

"We replaced the old ones. Remember? These are-"

"Right, right. Damn heavy, but worth every ounce." Dean took a beat to fill his mouth once again.  
To Sam's unending entertainment, The older hunter _never_ choked on his food. Also spoke with impeccable diction, no matter the size of whatever he happened to be multi tasking his pie hole chewing up.  
"'Sides: Someone could'a died on those ancient tick bags. Best to take them out back and burn 'em all. Just in case-"

"Their ghosts were, for some reason, haunting their old mattresses. I- heh, I remember," Sam said, barely holding back laughter revisiting the memory.  
Dean'd refused to sleep on any of the perfectly preserved beds in the entire bunker until they went out and bought fresh mattresses _and_ bedding sets.  
Especially entertaining since Dean had absolutely zero problems with motel beds _and_ had instead opted to sleep on one of the den couches. Even after Sam'd pointed out the blatant reupholstery job on one back panel that would likely signify someone having been either shot, or stabbed while sitting there. A much more likely place for a haunting than a well kept bed in someone's private quarters if you asked him.  
But, Dean being Dean, hadn't budged and so they'd gotten the new mattresses, salted and burned the old ones, and once Cas had moved in they'd done the same for the one in the room he'd chosen. The job being considerably easier since Cas was an Angel and possessed certain divine powers which made moving heavy furniture a literal breeze.

Sam closed his eyes in a grimace as he realized where his train of thought had brought him, knowing that Dean's would have dropped him off at the exact same stop.  
Moving only his eyes up from his plate of quickly disappearing food, he let out a breath as he silently wished that, just once in a while, he could be wrong about something.  
But, no. Dean's face had shuttered, all good natured joking vanished in the space of a sentence. Perhaps the most worrying part: When Dean swallowed, he set his fork on the table next to his plate.

At the light ting the stainless steel prongs let out, Sam looked up, acting as if he had no idea anything was wrong.  
"Done already?" He asked, calling Dean's attention to him and with it, getting a good look at his eyes. "Dean?" No need for acting when his voice came out concerned. "What- what's up? What's wrong?" A quick shake of a sullen head cut off anything more Sam might have said.

"Nothing. Just- just forget about it," Dean said with a sigh. Which felt wrong.  
Sighing was _Sam's_ thing.

"Okay," Sam said, a noncommittal head bob low key signaling that the chef was welcome to explain if he changed his mind.  
If it was someone else sitting across from him, Sam might even have _said_ something to that effect.  
As it was, he directed the obvious majority of his attention back to his plate and loaded up another bite of well seasoned breakfast. Feelers out, just in case.

"I-" Dean started and stopped in a choked off stutter.

Sam raised his head, affecting a 'wrong tube?' eyebrow, giving his bro every out. **Aware** , as he watched Dean's hands bunch into fists, that pressure of any kind would get him another "Nothing" in a heartbeat.  
When Dean looked somewhere close to his face and opened his mouth once again, Sam held his breath.  
Could this be the moment he'd been waiting most of their lives for? Was Dean going to _talk_ about something personal with him?  
Not likely.

"I miss him Sam." Sam felt his mind do a double take. "I miss Mom too, but -and I'm sorry to say it- I knew Cas longer." Then Sam felt his eyes grow wider. " _We_ knew Cas longer, and I- I-" Sam flinched ever so slightly as his brother slapped the table and shoved himself out of his tall seat. The sound of cutlery and stone wear rattling dying off as Dean gave a painful sounding huff.  
"I can't sleep. Not _right_ , anyway. I mean, sleep 'n' me've never been besties, but-" he bit off the last syllable, as if un _able_ to continue, as Sam watched on in shock. Shock that he was hearing any of this at all. Shock that his brother wasn't sullenly excusing himself from the table to crank oldies out of one of the numerable hi-fi speaker sets the Men Of Letters had inexplicably been so fond of.

Sam tracked as Dean began pacing the space between his prized cooking range and the center island, looking as if he wanted to walk right out of his skin and forget everything that had ever happened to him.  
A feeling Sam understood, but thankfully, had left behind for good some years ago.  
He chastised himself when he came to the late realization that he should already have said something. And at the complete lack of... _anything_ his mind was supplying him with.  
He couldn't dredge up one thing, profound or not, to say. No words of comfort nor... **anything** useful. The great 'can't we just talk it out'-er struck speechless by his brother, of all people, being the first to breech a sore subject.  
He'd never seen it coming.

"I just-" Dean stopped dead center in the open space, face pointed toward the ground, eyes barely visible but, even so, obviously very much filled with pain. "I **miss** him, Sammy," Dean said, head flicking back up when he realized what he'd called his brother. Shoulders relaxing after about a quarter second of eye contact; assured he hadn't offended with the name slip.  
"Not having him here... it _hurts_."

Sam stared at his brother, still struck dumb by the admission freely given. Stared long enough for a pair of distraught hands to bunch and unbunch a good three times and for a hint of dejection to enter the mix.  
He owed it to his brother to say something, because not doing so and soon- Uh-oh. There it was.  
Him just staring like a guppy, not responding? Dean was starting in on an emotion that usually led to Sam not hearing the guy's voice for multiple days: Rejection.

Just as the older hunter closed his eyes, one booted heel lifting in anticipation of a swift exit, Sam cleared his throat. Motioning for Dean to take his seat the first move he'd managed in far too long.  
When the only reaction was a waver ending in the boot heel coming back to flat ground, Sam opened his mouth, hoping he didn't choke.  
"I think... I know the feeling." At the unclenching of a pair of fists, he motioned once more for Dean to sit.

"When Jess... died," he started, tongue stumbling in between words, "I couldn't sleep. Barely ate. Hated seeing happy couples. Or happy _people_ , for that matter." He paused, wetting his lips and making sure Dean was listening before muscling up more.  
"It was, uh, really tough. Suddenly not having her around. Not seeing her smile." Sam glanced down at his cooling, half eaten mound of food, then back up at the sound of his brother retaking his seat. Allowing a twitch of a smile at the small victory.  
"Tougher though, knowing that..." Sam didn't like the way his throat felt when he inspected this batch of memories; tight and sticky and far too warm for comfort. "Knowing that I'd never get to share a meal with her again, never- never congratulate her on passing the bar, never... find out where our lives were gonna take us. Together."

"I forgot," said a Dean who sounded like his throat felt just as nasty. Hunched and closed off in his seat, but it turned out, hanging on every word. "Sorry. For your loss."

Sam didn't try to stop his short lived, sad smile at that. "Don't worry. All that happened, like, a dozen years ago. A baker's dozen, actually."

"Still."

"Yeah. Still," Sam agreed.

"Guess we both have someone to miss," said Dean, pulling himself a little straighter in his seat and laying a hand on the table. Right near his forlorn fork.

"Multiple someones. At least we still have- y'know," Sam indicated the space between them. Then the bunker itself. Knowing how much having a place to call home had brightened Dean's outlook on... life.

"Yeah... That," Dean agreed. Waving a hand in a halfhearted attempt at mocking Sam's sentimentality. Ending the movement with a quick scrub at his own face. Conspicuously near the tear duct region.

Understanding and respecting the need for privacy regarding one's personal grief, no matter what his big brother thought, Sam had no interest in using those little lines of water trailing from his eyes against him. He didn't even mind pretending they weren't there, as had years earlier been tacitly agreed upon as being the _correct_ response to this type of situation.  
No exceptions.

Sometimes, he had a feeling Dean still saw him as that pudgy, petty, twelve year old he'd helped their dad raise.  
Someone he had to shield from what evil in the world he could and who he had to be strong for. Couldn't show his insecurities to. Couldn't allow into his 'messed up' head space. Couldn't-

"Sam,"

"Yeah, Dean?" Sam said, hiding all trace of surprise at his brother's soft tone.

"...Thanks."

"You're welcome." Sam let that sit until Dean finally filled his fork once more, then added, "Thanks for telling me. And... thanks for breakfast."

Dean scoffed, then popped the heap of eggs and ham into his mouth before responding. "Since when do you 'thank' me for _anything_?"

Sam couldn't help the guffaw at Dean's attempts to speak around an extremely full set of cheeks. Looking comically related to a chipmunk as he chewed without dropping a crumb.  
"I guess, since now."

"Awesome. You got a helluva lot of thanking to catch up on there, Sammy," said while pointing at the hunter in question.

With a quirk of the mouth and an amused huff, Sam said to that the only thing he could. Relieved when Dean did the same right back.

"Jerk."

"Bitch."


	2. A Profound Bond

**Cas has been sleeping a lot lately.**  
 **Dean has been missing him while he sleeps.**  
 **Cas misses Dean too.**

Cas hadn't slept in... well, it was a relatively novel sensation. Considering Angels didn't do it and his times spent as a human had all been brief in comparison.

He was quite acquainted with the _concept_ ; had watched many hours of humans, animals, trees doing it. Had flitted through dreams and studied the rhythms of rest over the millennia. When it had tickled his fancy. But he'd never really participated in the past time, not with such gusto at least, until now.  
Now, he was _definitely_ participating.

In fact, he wasn't sure how to _stop_ participating. Nor quite how he'd started it in the first place.  
Being asleep was a very strange feeling. He wasn't sure he wanted to keep it up. Especially not when Dean was so sad about him... not being awake?

Dean? Why did Cas know such a thing about the waking world if he was asleep? And he was most certainly _sound_ asleep.  
Hmm. Perhaps Dean wasn't part of the waking world?  
Perhaps, in this same breath, Dean was also sleeping? A thing Cas had come to know the Winchester did not do with consistency.

Cas felt himself pulled toward that sad, dreaming mind. Not at all pleased with its waves of grief he could feel battering the cosmic cloth of reality.  
One human should not possess the capacity for such intense loss. No single, non-psychic should be able to project those impossible feelings across time and space so instantaneously.

Then again... Cas could be right next to Dean. Considering he had no idea where he _was_ , it wasn't terribly unlikely. Right?

Oh, yes. Cas sighed with relief as he felt a familiar dreamscape beginning to solidify around him.  
Dean's.  
He'd spent many an early night, mid night, _or_ late night in this exact astral spot. Occasionally, even an entire night. When it turned out Dean was able to sleep it through.

Sometimes, his angelic presence alone had been enough to calm the hunter's... less than calm mind and let him snooze until the sun told him to wake up.  
Other times, a nightmare might sneak in under his notice and change their idyllic meeting place to a charred battle ground. Angels and Demons tearing each other asunder even as they knew they were already dying. Bits of their souls lying strewn or far flung, leaving raw and terrifying figures in their places.

No human should have to witness such carnage. Which was the reason the nightmares, as Cas knew them to be, did not do _his_ account of the sally justice.  
Dean's memory of the rescue and recovery mission had been wiped from his mind, in large part, because human minds, aside from those of Prophets, were not meant to behold the true forms of Angels. And there had been lain to waste that day **many** a righteous soldier.

Alas. The human spirit is a beautiful, _powerful_ thing which Enochian kind have been underestimating since its conception, and the images and reality of what had happened there in Hell had been far more... impressive perhaps, than even Cas had guessed.  
Dean's subconscious, if not his waking mind as well -he'd have to ask the poor man someday- had held fast to its negatives and re-composited all that it could.  
Attempting to answer persistent questions from a curious mind? Who could say? What Cas knew for sure: Though the entire mess was scaled down by magnitudes and the Angels' forms edited to something a human _might_ behold without damage, this was indeed still a damaging place for Dean.

So, anytime Cas had found his visit interrupted by the just recognizable visages of Angels he'd been forced to say goodbye to years ago, he indulged his own whim. Taking the opportunity to relive one of his proudest -however difficult that was to admit- moments of Heavenly service.

If only Dean's dreams ever included that part of their history without his intervention.  
But, no. Cas instead was under the impression that Mary Winchester must have angered a dream spirit at some point in her first pregnancy, because these 'nightmares', and countless others he'd witnessed firsthand, were merciless and plentiful.  
They were designed to cause torment and pain and they _always_ hit their marks.

In this dream version of Heaven's Intervention, Dean was not saved, all the Angels of the garrison perished, and worst of all, for Dean if for no one else... Castiel never grabbed a bright soul by the arm, looked him right in the cowering, shamed face, and told him without an ounce of uncertainty, "Now, I grip you tight, and raise you from perdition."

He hated seeing Dean in those dr- _nightmares_. The proud hunter he'd cultivated a profound bond with.  
No soul deserved to bring Hell with them everywhere they traveled. To every motel in every state. To every bed in America and even to one in Scotland. Even to the place that the Winchesters had finally found to call home.  
It was **official** too. He'd heard Dean call it that. More than once. 'Home'.

Though, perhaps the Men Of Letters had been aware of dream spirits and had woven wards against them into the bunker's foundations, because here, in his new home, Dean had had more calm nights than he'd ever had on the road.  
Though, perhaps it had more to do with the fact that the Winchesters _had_ a home. Had a family. A _full_ family, once Cas had moved in with them.  
Again, something he'd heard Dean say. Had felt the joy dripping off him from the other room as he'd said it.  
He really was a sweet soul. Mary'd seen that too, and Cas was confident it had played into her decision not to move in with her sons and their angel.

Well, if he was honest with himself, he was really more _Dean's_ angel. Or, was Dean more _his_? Hm.

No matter the semantics, Cas was certainly feeling the pull of their bond, and it was dragging him away from wherever it was he was slumbering. Wherever he was _still_ slumbering. As his corporeal self remained motionless and exactly as it had been for some time now.

Fascinating. The duality of being two places at once. All the stranger perhaps, for one being unknown to him, and the other... intimate.

He found himself in Dean's dreamscape. Staring as a funeral pyre burned bright in a small clearing, mourners to one side, heads bowed and hands stuffed in pockets. No matter whether they'd rather be around another's back.  
That wasn't the code of conduct at a hunter's funeral.

Cas tracked the blackened smoke and wondered, not for the first time, at just how lifelike things could seem in a dream.  
When he looked back to the bereft he was surprised to see only one; the other already quite a ways off, making quick time on account of the inhuman length to their legs.  
Oh. So that had been Sam. That left, "Dean." He'd whispered it to himself. Testing his solidity here.

Who's funeral was this? Dean carried with him every life and death he'd cared for as well as any additional he'd felt responsible for, so there were more than most might have to choose from.

Hm. Strange. The moon was arching across the sky at abnormal speeds. In fact, everything about the night moved quickly and it became nearly morning in the space of barely a minute.  
And Dean was still standing where Sam had left him at his vigil. Even the fire had left him at some time. Yet there he stood. Squinting as the sun peeked its first over the edges of his glen.  
With the new light, the tracks of tears were then discernible and helped explain the reason for the intensity of the pain Cas could feel spilling off one of the most sensitive souls it had been his pleasure to know.

Wait. _Had_ been?

Cas started forward, startled from his thoughts when the lone hunter by the smoldering wood collapsed to his knees. A spike of pain met him halfway as he transported himself closer. Dean was only still starting on his mourning period.  
Whoever this had been, their death had had a profound impact on Dean's psyche. Cas could only imagine how important this hunter had been in _life_ to the brothers, and to Dean specifically.  
He didn't think- hadn't thought that their father's passing had been quite-

No. This happened very close to the present day. Cas could see wrinkles and signs of years past on his friend's crumpled face.  
Who had died recently? Not Jody. He'd spoken to her over the cellphone only... well, _recently_.

He looked to the ashy, burned mess hoping for answers, but found only an aching sadness he was sure was only half his own.  
Who was being mourned?

"Cas."

"Yes, Dean?" At the sharp intake of frigid dawn air, Cas realized Dean hadn't been speaking to him. And when he turned to the man on his knees, he confirmed by the look of horror tempered by just a thread of hope transforming his face, that Dean had been completely unaware of his presence.  
"Hello, Dean. Good morning."

A shuddering breath out, then in, and it was obvious Dean wasn't going to greet him in kind. So Cas knelt on one knee, bringing himself level with his friend, and asked, "Who's funeral is this?"  
The ever widening eyes were answer enough.

Cas sighed and decided this was as good a time as any to indulge in another of his favorite dreamscape whims.  
"I hope it _is_ a good morning."

He placed two fingers on Dean's brow, as he had many times before, and just as he gave the pained consciousness before him the smallest angelic pulse, the hunter found his voice and spoke again his first word.

"Cas!"

Well. Here he was. Just _sleeping_ again. Now that he thought about it: Sleeping was an extremely boring pastime. At least if you weren't capable of dreaming. And were conscious of the fact that you were sleeping.

Just a little while ago he'd been doing something... interesting, right?  
Yes. Cas had been visiting someone with whom he was very close. Someone who was very sad.  
...Who again?

Right. There was the pull. Unmistakeable for the frequency of its appearances over the years. Always able to draw a melancholy smile from him, as he was both happy to be reminded of Dean, and sad to know the stalwart hunter was missing him.

Woah. For a second there, Cas thought he'd been in the bunker. Standing in the middle of the Winchester's kitchen and staring at the -and he'd never embarrass Dean by saying it out loud- adorable sight at their center island: A sleepy giant sinking onto a paper pillow, wishing for a friend he knew wasn't coming

But Cas _had_ come. Was **definitely** standing there in their kitchen again. Or, part of him was, anyway. Sam not seeing him when he came to check on his brother was proof enough that he'd somehow left his body behind. Sleeping.

Taking note of the way Dean was slumped, Cas remembered that humans did not enjoy the way their bodies felt after sleeping in such... novel configurations.  
Unless they were children. Children didn't enjoy sleeping at all.  
 _Unless_ in novel configurations.

Cas shrugged to his incorporeal self, admitting that he likely had some part of that wrong, and approached the island. Noticing, when he came close, a small drop of water sliding lazily down Dean's exposed cheek.  
He hated being the cause of such...

He sighed, touching two ghostly fingers to the smoothing forehead half smooshed into the pristine, century old text, and transported the both of them to an unlit room.  
The small miracle took more concentration than it might have had he his physical manifestation there with him, but Dean still appeared in his own bed and not on the floor or in the mattress. Cas was pretty sure he'd call that 'a win', so the angel smiled to himself and folded the covers he really shouldn't have been able to touch over his hunter, and just watched as a wave of contentment that wasn't all his washed over him.

Fully aware that watching the slow up and down of Dean's diaphragm was lulling him, Cas committed the picture of a rare peaceful slumber to his angelic steel trap of a memory and allowed himself to rejoin his body. Wherever that was.

"I **miss** him, Sammy."

There was an unsettling edge to the voice as the sentiment echoed around in his brain pan.  
Cas rolled the sentence around a bit before deciding that: No. This was far out of character for his friend, the oldest brother of the family Winchester.

Out of character yet undeniably true. For Dean _and_ for himself, and if missing a human wasn't out of character for an angel, then Castiel wasn't sleeping. Again.  
While the brothers had their first real conversation in Lord knew how long.

Sometimes, life just wasn't fair. Although, for Cas, perhaps it was Death who wasn't fair. Considering he was probably _extremely_ dead.  
Hence the heart to heart taking place in a Men Of Letters bunker some universe away. Tears going unacknowledged down the face of someone he'd never meant to make ache so.

Okay. This was getting old. Sleep was officially Castiel's _least_ favorite pastime, and beside that rather important point: if the last night had been anything to judge by, he was needed elsewhere.

When his mind supplied him a reminder of the adorable sight he'd caught in the kitchen, Cas felt a smile threaten the solemnity of a sleeping face.  
When his thoughts turned to those of teardrops clinging to lashes whose owner would forever deny were long and dark, he felt a finger twitch.

It was decided. He was busting out of this joint.

With a great wresting, one eye, then the other opened, and he beheld a sight of absolute nothingness. An absence of... matter, light, substance, _any_ thing.  
It was no matter. If he leaned on the bond he could feel pulling him like a homing beacon, he'd be home faster then he could figure out where he even was.  
No sweat.  
...Because angels didn't sweat. Never mind- who was in charge around here?

After a relatively short introduction to and confrontation with someone called the "Master Of This Naptime", or something to that persuasion, a fairly handsome rascal if Cas said so himself, though lacking in the _good_ personality department, Cas found himself in a far more familiar place, drawing a lungful of clean, earth air. His first in quite a while.

He was standing in a clearing, signs of a bonfire to one side and... oh. This was where he'd been lain to rest by the Winchesters. By Sam and Dean.  
It appeared very much like in the dream he'd interrupted, though minus the column of acrid smoke marring the view. And minus a funeral goer who'd stood by his side until the sun came up and he couldn't stand anymore.

Chuck- er, God Bless him, Cas thought as he walked across the charred remains of what could arguably count as his own grave.  
For _anyone_ to care so deeply for **him** , of all beings... was nigh on inconceivable. After all the ways in which he'd singlehandedly, _nearly_ brought about end times- the death of everything humans and angels alike hold dear, you'd think the entire universe would have gotten the memo:  
Cas the angel = persona non grata.

But when was listening to the universe ever high on the to-do list of a Winchester?  
When he thought of it, Dean had nearly brought about Armageddon himself, and so had Sam. But they'd also prevented them. So, maybe they really did deserve an impregnable home to themselves. One filled with their closest and dearest only a hallway, or even a cellphone call, away.

Castiel spread his proverbial feelers out in a gentle wave, checking for the wellbeing of souls he knew, and for any undue demonic activity that might call for swift action. Finding all quiet on the demon front, he-  
No. It couldn't be.

Cas said a quiet prayer as he realized his angelic reach into the world had come back lacking.  
Mary Winchester was gone.  
He'd have to give the brothers his condolences. Mary was a fine... Mary'd been wonderful.

Cas couldn't imagine what it must be like for them. Grieving the loss of _two_ loved ones. Suddenly taken and, knowing their luck, violently so; it must have been absolutely heartbreaking.  
Though, the look Dean's dream self had given him the night before, kneeling in the dream equivalent of this exact spot? Cas already knew how it felt. And it was. It absolutely was.

Cas needed to see him. So he felt out for where he already _knew_ his family was, aware that confirming these sorts of things before 'poofing' off was always a good idea, and nodded when he felt both brothers safe and comfortable in the bunker. Not out on some sudden, urgent case in New Jersey or Montana or any other lawless frontier where they'd be likely to get themselves into horrible danger or _worse_ -  
Taking a deep breath, Cas reminded himself that, though their souls were not yet four decades on this earth, the Winchester boys were fully grown, _capable_ hunters who could 'handle their own shit, thank you very much.'

It was just hard to remember sometimes.

Destination pinpointed, Cas took a step that transported him across state lines. Blurring mountains, rivers, dew sprinkled vistas, and miles of paved roads into little more than a smudged afterimage. Arriving at the doorstep of the Men Of Letters' American Chapter House before he needed to blink.  
Pulling out a key he by all rights should not have still had, Cas unlocked the door. Wondering as he did, what exactly about that form of travel it was that Dean so hated.  
Instantaneous transit? You'd think a busy hunter might benefit from such a thing.

As Cas locked the door behind himself, he thought back on his split second trip and felt the corners of his mouth curl upwards.  
Dean was a sentimentalist. That was it. Always wanted to enjoy the scenery. Even when the fate of the world hung in the balance. After all, what was the point of it all if there wasn't always a little time to get behind the wheel and sniff the carbon monoxide rich exhaust? His brother in the seat next to him, cake hole firmly shut as the driver's music set the tone of their cross country excursion.

Maybe... Dean would let Cas shut his own cake hole for a drive sometime. If he promised not to laugh at the driver singing along when Taylor Swift came on 'accidentally' halfway through the pre-made road trip mix.  
If they could find the free time.

Hm. Cas turned to take in the main room from the landing a good fifteen feet above.  
The bunker was peaceful this time of day. He'd never appreciated that while he'd had a place here. On and off these past months. Years even.  
He'd come to think of it as a bit of a transitory base from which to carry out his operations or missions and somewhat less a home he'd somehow been invited to be a part of.  
Perhaps this time around he'd be wise enough to see it for what it really was.

Feeling a pulse of sadness from somewhere deep in the bunker, Cas transported himself within twenty feet of its source. Impressed that there existed any rooms in this labyrinthine complex he had yet to familiarize himself with, and that this particular one was where he'd find the saddest man in the tri-state area.  
Surrounded by a veritable battery of hunting tools. All originating in the ages of antiquity, by the look of them.

"Dean, what are you doing in here?"

Heaving an amazingly, _maddeningly_ uncharacteristic sigh, the otherwise undisturbed hunter ran a thumb against one cutting edge of a several century old double headed axe mounted at a great height for grabbing right off the wall. When Cas glanced around, he realized that whoever had 'decorated' this room had put everything where it was with a purpose and with ease of access top of the list of spacial concerns.  
When it came to that most ancient of arguments, style versus function, this room lacked neither.

Listening to the sound of a well worn thumbprint testing the sharpness of a museum piece, Cas waited long enough that he began to think Dean hadn't heard him at all and might have just been sighing for no reason.  
Sam _had_ approached him one morning, some time ago, asking whether he might consider healing his brother's potentially failing sense of hearing. Pointing out the inherent dangers of having a partially deaf hunter who _thought_ he still heard as sharp as any bird dog, out in the field.  
Cas had nodded and told Sam that he would be happy to help with anything Dean _consented_ to or, optimally, asked for help with himself.  
Sam had shrugged to himself with a characteristic sigh, mumbling that he was probably reading too much into things, and clapped Cas on the shoulder as he left to change out of his sweat drenched jogging clothes.

Maybe Sam had been onto something after all, thought Cas as he opened his mouth to repeat his question. Instead, he relaxed his jaw, rather relieved, when the back he was staring at moved to the next bladed weapon and took in a breath. Ready to answer.

"Pondering the hypocrisy of mortality."

Cas felt an eyebrow quirk in surprise at the sentiment. "While perusing a cache of ancient weapons?"

The taller man across the room scoffed, moving a hand to touch the blade of a glaive, making a pleased nod when it was indeed sharp enough for his liking.  
Had Dean taken over as curator of this installation? Yes. Cas seemed to recall him sequestering himself to the wet wheel room for a number of days about a year previous, but at the time, hadn't thought to ask why.  
Now he knew the reasoning behind the eccentric activities: Dean had taken it upon himself to keep this portion of his legacy lineage alive. An admirable pursuit if any Cas had seen.

"Perfect time for it, you ask me. What else would a room full of cutting, smashing, ripping tools remind you of? _Life_?" Dean asked, surprising the angel he still hadn't looked at when he pulled a small feather duster from one pocket to run along the woven leather grip of the beautifully hewn spear sword.

"Yes." Cas said, taking his first step over the threshold into a collection he hadn't been aware existed. Hadn't known Dean had nursed back to life and cared for. "Life. Battle. Victory. Soldiers in arms."

"Yeah: Death. Battle _fields_. Defeats... Friends and families gone." Cas watched Dean move on to the next piece, feather duster at shoulder height now, and marveled as the usually stoic man didn't bother collecting himself before saying more.  
"This place reminds me of you." Cas's eyes widened at the admission. "Always has. The guy who never gave up on me. Didn't let me go full demon." Was Dean making reference to his time spent in the service of Alastair as a torturer of souls in 'the **pit** '? "Hm. 'Gripped me tight'." Oh, Lord, he _was_. That was never a good place for Dean, not mentally and **definitely** not spiritually.  
He needed to shift the subject matter.

Taking a few steps deeper into the well appointed room, even the carpeting was a fetching crimson, looking almost as if only a handful of shoes had ever touched its fibers, Cas refrained from checking the collection for Enochian pieces and made his attempt at a diversion.  
"I hear that you've missed me since my passing."

"Tch. No shit, Sherlock. What else is new?" Dean didn't bother mumbling the probable insult as he admired just how dust free the latest weapon's ball and chain were.

"What do you mean?"

"You know. You take off on some 'mission from God', heavenly family emergency, _die_ even, and I'm left here cleaning pigstickers until you show up again. Or not."

"And you _miss_ me? On **all** of those occasions?" Cas asked, transfixed as Dean pulled what appeared to be a microfiber cleaning cloth from another pocket and began wiping delicately at the bowled, convex face of a bronze plated shield. Mounted at low shoulder height next to a Roman gladius whose main cutting length shone pink. Forever tarnished by the boiling blood of the souls of the damned, at The Battle Of The Repulsion Of Tartarus.  
Said so on an included papyrus placard, which also warned against touching the sword with bare, human hands. Or listening to its whisperings after The Great Chariot pulled the Sun back to its resting place and the Moon reigned above all.

"We've been over this a dozen times: You leave, I miss you. You come back, I ask you to stay, you leave again, I-" Dean rubbed the cloth a little harder, perhaps unintentionally breaking through the aged patina right at the center of the bulbed shield. "Now you're dead, and I... have a problem with that."

"Dean, we've never discussed this before. Nevertheless, you are correct," Cas informed, taking two steps closer to the back he was getting anxious to see the front of. "I did know that you miss my presence when I'm called away. I did _not_ realize though, to what extent." With one more step, he was barely a double arm's length from the curator on a crusade against corrosion. "Taking on those jobs was inconsiderate of me. Especially after my continued lodging was requested. I... apologize. For that."  
Dean rubbed a bigger circle free of all signs of age, looking for the world as if he were attempting to ignore an annoying buzzing in his ear.

Maybe Cas deserved that. Too little too late?  
Maybe Cas could do better than that.  
"I... miss you too, Dean. I leave thinking you'll be fine- that I overestimate your reciprocation of my cravings for... intimacy. And that I don't deserve a place in your home to begin with."

"Bullshit. You deserve more than I have to offer. Baby, Sam, and this bunker are all I got to call mine in this world. Adding an angel to the list? Was too much to hope for."

"It is _not_ too much, Dean." Cas insisted, barely holding himself back from reaching out and forcing the guy ruining centuries of bacterial buildup to _look_ at him. "Besides: I've considered myself yours and... you mine for some time now. Years in-"

"Aw, _hell_ ," Dean bit off, crumpling the dirtied cloth in a fist before slapping it sharply onto the floor. "Gotta stop talking to myself. This can't be healthy," he said, carding dusty fingers through his shock of hair in a sign of restlessness.

"Dean, you're not talking to yourself. I've been resurrected." Said about as plainly as if he'd just said his favorite color was chartreuse. And he felt up to bald faced lying. Because _nobody's_ favorite color was chartreuse. He'd know. He'd checked.

Refocusing, looking closely, Cass could see Dean's eyes reflected in the newly polished bronze of the shield. Looking straight at him. Could see them growing wider. Could see a war of emotions burgeoning right beneath the surface, threatening to bring the battle out into the open.

Right. He'd _thought_ Dean sounded strange. The poor soul had thought he was talking to himself the entire time. Dean was right, that wasn't a good sign. Not for most beings anyway.

"Cas?"

"I'm here, Dean. I've been here-

"Cas? I mean-" The consummate hunter whipped around, off hand dropping the feather duster it may have been attempting to brandish as a weapon. "The _real_ Cas? Not dream Cas, or a shapeshifter, or- Am I-"

"You're awake, Dean, and so am I. I'm only sorry it took so-"

In the microsecond that Cas had averted his eyes, a feeling akin to shame or perhaps failure prompting him to break eye contact, the fight or flight instincts of a soul who'd survived Purgatory made themselves known in the form of a heavy, partially polished bronze shield spinning straight for his head.  
Cas dodged, surprised by both the explosive power and impeccable technique behind the desperate outlash, and couldn't help but watch as the disc sailed out the door and down a darkened hallway he could have sworn hadn't been there when he'd first arrived.

Almost before he recognized the ticking by of an errant second, Cas found himself jumping backwards from the swipe of a weapon he feared may hold more power over death than any bladed item was ever meant to. Its fine honed edge making an angry hiss as it arced not two inches from his unprotected belly.

"Dean! It's _me_!" He barely had time to get the words out before he was dodging yet another well aimed, though horribly misguided, arcing attempt at an enemy's life. Followed with a thrust the extension of which would have done any fencing instructor proud. And which he'd had to pull out just a hint of a miracle to avoid.  
He'd still felt the heat rolling off the point just as it was pulled back to base.  
"Dean-"

"Prove it." The voice so hard, the tone so unyielding, it felt a miracle Cas didn't simply wink out of existence then and there. But a quick glance at the eyes laser trained to his quick moving body reminded Cas of what unthinkable tragedies had recently befallen the bereft hunter, and of the fact that such tragedies were **rarely** reversed.  
Dean _needed_ that proof.

So Cas wiped all trace of misgivings from his own mind and transported his vessel to such proximity that he was inside even a panicked Winchester's guard, being sure to appear _already_ with a good grip on the hilt of the gladius. Right between Dean's two vice like, shaking hands.  
With ease, he broke the cursed sword from the shocked grasp, this time not breaking the eye contact he prayed came across as reassuring.

He watched as Dean looked to his own empty hands, which appeared to be blistering disturbingly where they'd gripped the hilt tightest, to the blade now in the angel's hand, and back up.  
Speechless.

"You should not be touching this," Cas informed as he remounted the artifact so that it lined up perfectly with its ever so slightly scorched shadow on the wall.  
Knowing Dean and Sam's Latin was every ounce as good as his, Cas felt a moment of incredulity when he glanced again at the papyrus **_warning_** and saw the clause noting that humans who do not perform the ritual sacrifice of no fewer than 2 fatted drops of blood from the intended wielder's arm or leg, one atop an Altaria Di Superi, and the other into a consecrated fire pit named for Di Inferni, _and_ don The Helmet Of Bellona: Our Goddess Of War, Destruction, Conquest, And Bloodlust, would unerringly burst into flames.  
And die.

Hm. Though absolutely petrified by the implications of what had just nearly happened, Cas found it in himself to produce a small chuckle.  
Bellona? When was the last time he'd seen her leading an army off into righteous battle? Good on her for winning that title she'd been slathering over for so long. Had a nice ring to it too.  
And thank the Lord Dean's soul was marred- er, _enriched_ by his many brushings against the demonic Di Inferni. Otherwise... only one being would still be standing in that armory, and the American Men Of Letters would have but one legacy member left.

Cas turned to Dean without saying more. Simply surveying the face freckled in dawning acceptance and... welling tears.

"I thought-"

"I know, Dean. I felt your pain. At the funeral- and thank you for that, by the way," he said with a rather tepid, one armed gesticulation. "It was a lovely service."

"The dream, last night- that was _you_ you?" At the nod, Dean's spine seemed to relax its rigid posture, allowing his large frame to fall into a more natural carriage. "Damn. No wonder it felt so **real**. Like it used to," he said. Human eyes searching Cas's. Hoping for answers.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I've wanted to, but my schedule of late precluded my visiting. Even in dreams," Cas lamented, hoping his sincerity came across undiluted.

"You mean, aside from the whole being dead part?" Cas huffed in amusement at the cavalier tone affected along with the sarcastic half grin.

"Yes. Aside from that... unpleasant business," he confirmed. Making his best attempt at mirroring the inimitable character across from him and no doubt falling far, far short.  
He still earned a chortle.

"I really thought I was talking to myself there." Dean said, giving his head a little shake. "You seriously need to stop _appearing_ in the middle of rooms like that. Normal folks'd call that 'rude'."

Cas's head canted before he launched his defense in the name of his intentions as well as his actions. "I 'appeared' outside the room, Dean. I thought you would have heard me walk in." He watched as vexation, then a slight blush overtook the planes of a familiar face. Noting the irregular skip of his own heart at the unfamiliar sight.

"Oh. Guess I was busy then."

"Contemplating the hypocrisy of mortality?"

"Damn it. I _hoped_ that wasn't out loud," he said, both frustrated and further embarrassed. Evidenced by the deepening and spreading of his blush as it peeked out at Cas from under an open button-down collar.

Drawing on his legendary self control, Castiel tore his gaze from the uppermost of a barely visible, pinkening clavicle, and felt his heart skip once more as their eyes met.  
"Dean, there is something I've wanted to ask, or perhaps _say_ , for... long enough that," feeling a flutter from inside his chest, Cas paused just long enough to be sure he wasn't malfunctioning.

"Long enough that what?" Dean prompted when Cas didn't immediately continue.

"Dean, I..." Cas moved forward and had to squeeze a fist _tight_ to keep from taking one of Dean's hands in his. "I've been human a couple of times, so I know how some things of this persuasion are expected to work, but," he moved a half step closer, eyes not leaving the hazel ones threatening to get him tongue tied, "I've never tried this with a hunter. I'm not sure how that would..."

"What are you talking about, Cas?"

"This," he said, telling Dean as concisely as he could. Which just so happened to be with his lips against another, surprisingly soft pair that didn't flinch away.  
There _was_ a flinch, Cas felt it in his teeth, but it was the perfect kind of flinch. The kind that brings you closer. **Far** closer.

Cas stepped back, to where he'd been just before, and after a beat of mutual shocked silence, Dean's hand came up, reached across their little spotlight in the universe, and nestled itself in the down at the nape of Castiel's neck, pulling ever so gently.  
Cas didn't have to reach quite so far this time, as Dean met him half way.

The kiss lasted longer than any hug they'd shared, on the physical plain at least, and Cas found he couldn't keep his vessel's eyes open. But when he tried a little angelic recon, he found Dean's also shut. Little droplets clinging to lashes Cas would never embarrass Dean by complimenting. Not on the physical plane anyway.  
Only in his dreams.

"What about that had you worried?" Dean asked as they broke away again, giving the back of Cas's neck a little squeeze.

"I was _hoping_ you wouldn't flip me to the ground and grab one of those off the wall," Cas said, pointing at a pair of sai that gave off a very Edo period glean.

"Yeah, not really my style. 'Never hit anyone who's kissed me. Not even if they asked," Dean said, half of his mouth quirked in an intriguing smile.

"What about spanking?" Cas found himself asking before he'd had time to examine the thought for appropriateness.

"Well, only if someone asked _real_ nice." Cas wasn't sure Dean was aware of the licentious expression morphing his face, but he found it just as entertaining as he did anything else the hunter didn't know his own face was doing.

"Like the pizza delivery man and the baby sitter on the-" Cas was cut off by a gentle hand against his mouth. He raised a brow in question.

"We don't talk about porn, remember?"

At his nod, the hand slipped away from Cas's face and the other fell from its comfy place behind his head.  
"Although," the angel couldn't help adding , "I've read that many couples watch together, to share in the erotic experience and-"

"Nope. _We_ ," Dean said, pointing between the two of them, "don't talk about porn. Ground rules. Being set."

"Alright," Cas couldn't help the chuckle at his hunter's pouty face. Anyone with a _mortal_ soul probably would have something different to say about the expression, but to Cas, Dean was just being Dean.  
"Can we talk about..." He indulged the impulse and let himself take a hand. Softly and not without checking that it wasn't unwanted. "About _this_?"

"'Course. This is my kind of talking," Dean said, glancing down at the angel's hand around his.

Cas smiled and this time, instead of going straight in for a kiss, he spirited the both of them off to somewhere a little more private.

 **Anyone think the Winchesters are having a happy New Year?**  
 **I do.**  
 **Till chapter three,**  
 **~Anonymous**


	3. A Full Family

Sam knew that Dean needed his privacy, so he gave him that. All that he needed.  
Sure, he wasn't letting the guy drink alone when he could help it, and he was checking in on the guy in the middle of every night, but overall, privacy was his goal.  
 _Health_ and privacy.

Okay, so privacy took a backseat to health, but considering how down his brother seemed- how down he'd _admitted_ to being, just that morning, Sam wasn't taking any chances.

Letting Dean play around in his very own private armory for example? It was just about time for dinner anyway. He'd taken the breakfast chef at his word earlier and eaten lunch by himself.  
Considering the veritable _mountain_ of eggs and ham Sam'd watched him put away that morning, it didn't take a huge stretch of the imagination to believe he might still be full. But if he said the same thing again, Sam was calling bull shit and dragging him up there himself.  
It wasn't in Dean's wheelhouse to be skipping meals and crying at the table. Or, it _hadn't_ been anyway.

He was keeping his fingers crossed that this was the time in life when Dean finally got in touch with his emotions, and not... something else.

Yeah, armory. Right. It was one more turn and a door that wouldn't let you pass unless you could prove you were a member of the _American_ Men Of Letters, and a weird hallway whose wallpaper always made it feel like you were walking backwards, then-

As Sam took the last slight corner and the well lit center of the ancient weapons depository came into view, his body stopped dead in its tracks and his jaw went slack.

Castiel _The Angel_ \- _The_ _ **Dead**_ _Angel_ was standing in the middle of his brother's favorite pet project, surrounded on all sides by knifes and lances and cudgels, _kissing_ said brother.

For once, Sam was thankful for Dean's less than perfect hearing, as he backed that last corner and left the two of them as much privacy as they could possibly hope to have with all that deadly silver and steel wreathing them. Half the stuff looked like it'd slain continents worth of monsters and, Sam would bet _good_ money, consequently was cursed as shit.  
They probably had a good half dozen ghosts staring at them at any given second! And them _way_ too lip locked and preoccupied to notice, let alone defend themselves, if something decided to go vengeful on them.

...Maybe he ought to have another look, just to make sure the hunter and the _angel_ were okay.

Sam turned around, stalked back down the half a backwards hallway he'd made it, and rounded the last corner once more. This time, with the practiced silence a hunter learns very early in a career.  
 _Hopefully_ learns. Otherwise, it's promised to be a pretty short career.

He was met by the sight of an empty room. Aside from all the cursed, definitely staring at him, wow some of those were over two millennia old, weapons. Of course.  
"Cas? Castiel?" He asked, walking into the room with one hand on the iron wrought stiletto he'd slipped behind his belt before coming down there. Just in case one of those ghosts hated hunters with hair that came below their ears.  
You never knew.

What Sam couldn't understand, as he padded a little farther into the painful end waiting to happen, was why on earth Dean _liked_ spending time in a place that was obviously a mausoleum for arms that were never meant to see use again. That pink sword over there? Looked like it was made back when Julius Caesar was in power? Yeah, Sam could read the warning from over by the entrance arch. Written as it was, in creepy, permanently fresh blood and plain, Vulgar Latin, he knew his ridiculous brother couldn't have missed it.  
How that relic of a part of the past best _left_ forgotten had a fresh edge on it, he'd never fathom.

Sometimes, he was _sure_ Dean had some sort of death wish.  
Sometimes... Just as often, he prayed he was wrong.

But, he shook his head, squared his shoulders, checked the ceiling and that one dark corner of the _perfectly_ _ **round**_ , perfectly lit room, and sighed.  
They weren't in here.

"Cas? Dean?"

"Uh, uh, uh~" Came a singsong voice that couldn't have originated from more than a hand's span behind his neck. But when he span around, iron dagger in hand, there was nothing. Save a few dust motes.  
"Peeping Tom~"

And like the tailor of old, catching a glimpse of Lady Godiva on her legendary, magnanimous ride, Sam was struck blind.  
 _Un_ like that poor reprobate, his vision returned in a flash and Sam couldn't quit the room soon enough.  
 _Someone_ in there, who just so happened to sound like a certain back from the dead angel, did not approve of his most recent life choice. That was for **sure**.

Now, to find Dean and never breathe a word of what he'd just experienced. Nor what he'd seen: Perhaps, _hopefully_ , the beginning of something... enduring.

He didn't slow his pace except to get past the pain in the a- _security_ door, until he hit the commons. When he turned toward his brother's corridor though, he remembered something that for some reason, was far more pressing and started off for the kitchen instead.  
Scratching his head and wondering how this important thing had slipped his mind until then.

Sam sighed and broke into a low impact jog, the entire last ten or so minutes pushed to the very back of his mind. For the present.

"Woah," Dean exclaimed, losing his balance and tripping both travelers completely off their feet. Cas falling first and making sure their landing place was a soft one.  
"Whatchya go and do that for?" Groaned a Dean squishing Cas's vessel into the fluffy comforter of a comfortable mattress.

"Privacy. Your little brother's inquiring mind was getting the better of him."

Eyes firmly shut, Dean remained exactly where he was and argued, "Why couldn't you poof _him_ somewhere else?"

Cas put a hand on the side of the dark blond head resting on his chest and performed a quick, noninvasive examination of the inside.  
Seemed Sam was correct in his educated guess concerning his brother's waning sense of hearing: The fine, sound wave decoding hairs of Dean's ears had seen better days, what with all the close quarters shootouts and small explosions he put them through as part of his job. Which had no doubt started as soon as he was old enough to aim a gun.

He'd have to bring it up some time. If Dean didn't on his own.  
Though, if Dean wished it, Cas could teach the entire bunker American Sign Language with less than a snap. Considering Dean's obvious aversion to anything supernatural interfering with his life, it just might turn out the more likely option.

Hm. Knowing Sam as he did, the _inquiring_ hunter was likely already studying the visual language. Or perhaps, had studied it during his years at Stanford.

In the meantime, Cas felt a sympathetic pang in his own vessel's temple and knew he'd found what was ailing the hunter still resting flat atop him.  
"Headache?"

"Migraine more like," groused his makeshift angelweight.

"And nausea? _And_ constipation? And you're starving?! Dean, why haven't you been taking care of yourself?" He cut off the weak attempt at a protest and teleported himself out from under the obviously less okay than he'd thought hunter. Heading for the door, he felt a hand bunch itself in the hem of his trench coat and had to pause.  
"Sam is usually more responsible than- You're even _dehydrated_? I'm having strong words with that 'brother' of yours."

"Sam's been great." The words stopping Cas from miracle-ing his coat from Dean's grasp. Clear, even mumbled as they were into a comforter. "Kid's been counting drinks; spying on me."

"Dean, Samuel Winchester is no longer a 'kid'. He is a thirty-five year old-"

"Yeah, yeah. He's still my annoying kid brother; I can call him what I want."

"Even 'Samantha'?"

Cas felt the chuckle through his coat and decided he could put the fear of Chuck- er, God in Sam later. Besides, the 'kid' was afeared enough as it was. Heh heh. What with the little message he'd candy-grammed the snoop.  
"Only when he's not around to hear it."

"Ah, secret nickname. Well, if Sam has indeed acted as his brother's keeper, then why do I find you in this condition?" He asked, taking a careful seat next to the lump slumped on the bed.

"You think I could've almost made angel-kabobs if you'd found me in this 'condition'?"

After a pause, Cas was forced to admit that, "No. That doesn't make sense. You were in prime form in the armory. The only thing to change was..."

"Poof."

"'Poof,'" Cas agreed, unsure what to make of it all. "Do you mean that-"

"I told you I hate it when you do that," Dean reminded, one hand moving semi-blindly to give the lump sitting next to him a pat on the knee.

Acting on impulse, Cas snatched the hand, as one might a moth from the air, and held it captive. Wanting the contact not to end.  
"Are you sure? In the past I've teleported you _and_ your brother and you've both continued with whatever mission you'd required transportation for."

"Yeah I'm sure," Dean sighed, giving his head the barest movement so as to reveal one eye to the dim room and it's sole other occupant. "This happened every time. Only difference, was Sam 'n' me being on a mission. Like you said."

"That is very strange." Cas said, leaning some to make seeing his face more comfortable. "For angels to perform small miracles, all it takes is faith and trust." He glanced at Dean, who he could always feel had both qualities to spare. "Oh. And something I forgot: Grace."

"Grace? Last time I checked, I wasn't the greatest dancer around."

"Your dancing is fine, Dean; I'm the one with two left feet. No, I was referring to divine grace which, for Enochian kind, is so intrinsic a part of our functionality that we often forget it replenishes us and nourishes us constantly. Hence the instant transportation not draining our vessels." He scootched farther onto the bed, nearest the aching head as he could without jostling it.  
"If you permit me, I would gladly replenish you now."

"Yeah?" Said a face now turned fully to one side, likely for easier access to fresh air, and being covered by a shielding hand. Even though there were no lights on in the bedroom.

"In this moment, nothing would bring me greater pleasure."

"Might wanna watch it with the superlatives there," Dean informed with a low chuckle which left Cas rather confused. "But, what the hell? This was all you after all."

"And Sam," Cas reminded, not wanting blame to miss any of its marks.

"Sure, let's keep telling ourselves that."

Cas ignored the aside and made to enact the replenishing, pausing when he felt the burn blistered palm underneath his shifting hands.  
"Your burns?"

"Eh, why not? That's on you too... Sort of," Dean added far more quietly.

Cas did not address that point, counting his luck that he was permitted as much as he was, and simply put two fingers to the accessible portion of a pained forehead and prayed for health returned.

"Wow. Talk about instant relief," Dean said, making to sit sooner than Cas had been expecting. "And the burning sensation is gone. Too bad you can't bottle that."

"Miracles don't keep well in hermetic containers."

"Oh. Well, thanks for," he held up both hands for inspection. Now blessedly free of angry blisters and overly pink splotches. " _Being_ here."

"There is nowhere I'd rather be," Cas informed, feeling his body list closer to the other now perched along the edge of the bed. Not sure whether it was gravity or just his own craving for intimacy getting the better of him.

"Again with the absolutes," Dean said with a fond shake of his head.

Cas caught his attention with a hand on his near shoulder, making eye contact before informing, " _Nothing_ would give me greater pleasure." Again Cas felt his heart skip at the blush his sincerity caused.

"So, we're _together_ now? Exclusive?"

"If you're available. My schedule just cleared up, so..." At the chuckle, Cas moved his hand to Dean's far shoulder and pulled until their heads touched.

"Good enough for me. We can start right now."

"Right now?" Cas sat straighter and made a quick survey of the darkened room. "Do you have the... necessities?"

With a pair of bugging eyes, Dean wiped the surprise off his own face and cleared his throat. "What kind of cad do you take me for? I meant dinner, Feathers."

"Is that my nickname now that we're 'official'?"

"No, that was a-"

"An insult?"

"A term of endearment. We'll work on nicknames later."

"...Cas is a nickname, right Dean? You were the first soul to ever call me that," Cas reasoned.

"Well, nickname's settled, I'm _starving_ ; let's eat!" Said Dean, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of some much needed food.

Cas led the way to the door, glad to see Dean finally, undeniably enjoying himself once again. Pleased as pie to feel the happiness rolling off him as he grabbed his jacket and keys, and followed him toward the bunker door. _Ready_ for a little drive.

About halfway through his urgent study of Rugaru, Their Hunting Patterns, And The Preferred Methods For Disposing Of Their Carcasses, Sam's head snapped up as a vision attacked every one of his senses.  
"Cas- Cas is back! Dean, Cas is-" he pelted from the kitchen, paying no mind when the sturdy tome was knocked face down onto the floor by an errant arm. The page he'd been reading now dog-eared for the remainder of its days. Likely never to be picked up where it'd been left off.

"Dean! Dean, Cas..." He trailed off as he hit the commons and realized exactly what else he'd seen. Down in the armory. The **haunted** armory that for some un _thinkable_ reason had a grudge against him, but never so much as weirded Dean out. And Dean was usually the first to get vibes about the questionable safety of abandoned houses and the like.  
In this instance though, the older brother he'd earned the height designated right to call his 'smaller' brother -which he'd only ever done when wanting to not hear his voice for several hours- when asked about it had just smiled an enigmatic smile. Mumbling something to the sound of, "It reminds me of..."

Sam hadn't pressed. Considering Dean spoke when he wanted to and glared when he didn't. Sam preferred silence to near hostility any day.  
Speaking of silence: that was all that met his frantic... he wouldn't call it _screaming_ , per se. The sound putting his teeth on edge worse than Dean's unfortunate taste in music. Which he'd mostly grown rather fond of, if he was feeling honest. And generous.

He found himself at the head of the long table nearest the main door, staring at something he was only now beginning to see.  
A note written in what had to be the most beautiful penmanship he'd ever laid eyes on. The hand of someone who'd _been_ there at the creation of written language. The hand of an angel.  
An angel he'd seen standing blissfully, _squarely_ on first base with an older brother he felt he understood better now than he had for the majority of their lives.

If Dad had found out while the two of them lived under his auspices, that his oldest son wasn't quite as straight as he was, he'd either have shrugged and asked someone to pass him another beer, or tried to beat it out of him there and then. Right in front of his kid brother.  
Dean would have known better than to chance such an unsure thing. After all, a fifteen year old sometimes high school student versus a trained marine?

Knowing Dean, if it had gone that way, he wouldn't have put up so much as an argument. Would've just stood there and taken it. Like a good soldier. Though, _after_ asking that Sammy be excused to go stare at birds outside. Which was weird, because Sam'd never said anything about birdwatching. Didn't even really like birds.

Okay, **now** Sam had questions. Such as, "Why didn't you tell _me_ , the **pacifist** of the family?" and, "Congratulations. You deserve this. One hundred percent." Which wasn't technically a question and _definitely_ wasn't going to be spoken as one- but this was a time for celebration and there was no way he was grilling his brother for details of his love life just because he'd seen him smooching someone he'd basically confessed to loving only that morning. Over breakfast.  
He'd save the questions for after the victory pie.

Reading the stunningly put together note for the sixth time, Sam felt his higher brain functions clunk back out of park and let him actually take in the words his eyes kept skimming over.

"Dean and I have taken 'Baby' and are driving to a local food serving establishment for sustenance. Dean calls it dinner and not a date. We don't date. We're not twelve. Just put the pen down and-  
Sorry, Sam. Maybe next time you can have the honorable designation of 'third wheel' and accompany- Never mind. Dean said, 'No way in Hell. He can find his own damn date.' Which I find confusing, as I'd just been informed that your brother and I were not, in fact, 'dating'.  
Ah. He's started the engine. If we're back before you read this, he'll probably burn it. So if you like this note, I suggest putting it somewhere Dean will never see it again.  
Sincerely yours, Castiel - Angel Of The Lord - Perhaps Date Of Your Older Brother"

Wow. How'd he read that five times without anything sticking? How long had he been standing right there? Why had he been so invested in that stupid book-  
Holding that thought, Sam hotfooted it to the kitchen, stooped to scoop up the old book he'd been mysteriously _into_ a brief time ago, and slipped the... 'unique' message inside. Between a color illustration of a dissected specimen, and one depicting the table of contents of said specimen's _stomach_.  
Which just so happened to be ninety-nine percent human flesh. Real shocker there.

Careful to put the book back exactly the way Dean had had it for the past few years, Sam found he couldn't wipe a sudden grin off his face. Knowing he better have that under control by the time the two 'not twelve' year olds got back, he went to the den and sat in a seat that didn't have a blatant reupholstery job and basked in the knowledge that, no matter what, Cas was gonna treat his brother right.

"Yo, Sam! Food's up!" Absolute music to his ears, Sam jumped off the seat he'd nearly dozed off in and made for the bunker front door.  
"We got rabbit food," the strangely excited voice of his brother proclaimed right before a strangely matching face came into view. Halfway down the stairwell and carrying a large couple of bagged takeaway containers Sam was pretty sure looked soggy. An Angel right on his heels.

"Uh, great, Dean. Thanks."

"'Welcome." Said with an air of distraction the flavor of which Sam hadn't seen on his bunkermate in... a long, long time.

"Just wondering why it looks like it's been sitting in this bag long enough to almost melt through it. You two get held up in traffic?" He asked, knowing full well that 'traffic' was something that happened elsewhere.

"It's called 'a long car ride', Sam, and-" was all Dean got out before his not date offered his own explanation.

"It's called 'second base', and it is the most pleasurable experience I have ever-"

" _Okay_ , I think Sam needs to eat his 'food' and get off to bed."

"I'm _four_ years younger than you, Dean. I haven't needed to 'get off to bed' since Christmas of nineteen ninety.

"It was mutually agreed upon that third base can wait until-"

" **Okay** , _everyone_ is going to bed. No dinner for Sam, and no poofing for the guy with invisible wings. Got it?" Dean demanded, removing the bag of probably still good food from Sam's hungry grasp.

"Hey-" Sam found himself cut off when a sound the likes of which the bunker and all its inhabitants past and present had never heard before rattled the stray, half finished mugs of coffee scattered around the commons.  
Both hands covering his own ears, Sam was surprised to see a glint of what appeared to be recognition in the eyes of his most certainly hearing impaired brother.

"Apologies. That hasn't happened since-"

"Was that _Enochian_?! Seriously, Cas?"

"Yeah, what gives?" Chimed in a Dean who looked both as if he was remembering something that'd happened a long time ago, and like that food was about to slip right out of his-

"I'll take that. Sam?" Cas asked, turning to the hungry hunter to make sure the food was handed over a second time. "Your dinner."

"Uh, thanks again, Cas," Sam said with a little nod. "But what the hell was the _screeching_ about?"

"Apologies. I shall attempt to keep my Heavenly tongue under control." Cas said, addressing the room at large. "To answer your question, Sam," Sam watched as the angel he'd known for the better part of a decade put on an expression he'd definitely never seen on that face. "The human equivalent sound is, mmmmhh," Cas said. Syllable holding and eyes closing just long enough that their would be no possible chance for misinterpretation.

Sam felt his face flush as he placed the now obvious noise. It was a good old fashioned moan and definitely not the kind of thing he'd **ever** thought he'd hear from an Angel Of The Lord.

"Excuse me, Samuel. Second base is calling," Cas informed, before turning around and stalking right up to a Dean Sam hadn't seen with such blown pupils in a _long_... No, scratch that. He'd **never** seen that look on his older brother's face up until that moment.  
Frankly, he wished he still hadn't.

Sam, nearly dropping the definitely soggy dinner himself, watched as an unabashed angel planted a deep kiss right onto his brother's pie hole and bodily brought himself flush against him. Dean looking every bit as into the whole thing as his not date.  
Just as another ceramic rattling 'moan' split the air, the two second-basemen disappeared, leaving Sam in the foyer wondering what in the world he was supposed to be feeling about all _that_.

Aside from worried over the few framed pictures he could hear rattling against the walls leading to Dean's personal quarters.  
Maybe it was fate that had Dean obviously not minding the Enochian slips, but Sam wasn't so lucky.  
Ooh. Scratch that. He'd only meant that his ears were ringing and that he needed to hightail it to the kitchen for food time anyway.

And whatever it was his bunkermates were getting up to, he hoped they were enjoying themselves. Though, judging by the way the ceiling boards were intermittently rattling tiny showers of dust over the island table, they were. Or, Cas was, anyway. But if he knew Cas, the angel couldn't possibly be enjoying himself unless Dean was happy as well. So...

Right. Cas had mentioned something about them mutually agreeing that 'third base' was waiting for them at the end of a rainbow, or something to that effect.  
But, uh, if this wasn't third base, Sam wasn't looking forward to being home when someone hit a home run.

He cringed at his takeaway as a light dusting of fifties era ceiling crud came to rest on the next bite he'd been planning to take.  
At least _someone_ was having a good time.

Sam looked forward to seeing his brother the next morning, if for no other reasons than to shoot the shit and make sure he was in good condition after the foundation rattling few minutes he hadn't wanted to chance checking in on after.

"Where's Cas?" Sam asked as his brother emerged from his proverbial cave as a hibernating bear might: Only at the promise of a good meal.

"Ah, he said something 'bout visiting an old friend... Bologna," he said, snapping as the name of the cold cut came to mind.

"Uh, the Roman cult Goddess _Bellona_?" Sam asked, incredulous.

"Tch, I don't know _all_ his friends. He can have a life."

"Yeah- Yeah, of course. Just," Sam blinked and shook his head. "She was kind of a big deal to a lot of people, way back."

"Yeah, well so was Freud," Dean said with an 'eh, eh?' eyebrow.

Sam couldn't resist the ridiculous jab against the discredited historical figure and ended up snorting in a rather undignified manner. Attempting to hide it behind a shy hand.  
"Uh, kitchen?" He asked, largely in order to distract his brother but also because he was himself, once again _starving_. Especially after making breakfast.

"Don't have to tell me twice," Dean said, leading the way with both excitement and apprehension coloring his walk in equal measures.  
To Sam's entertainment, the set of shoulders ahead of him relaxed when the island table came into view. Guess he hadn't made the vegetables too obvious after all.

The Winchesters retired to the den with full bellies bolstering jovial humors. Sam took the overstuffed armchair and Dean sat exactly where Sam had warned him years ago he was confident someone had died. Violently.  
Sam cringed ever so slightly as he watched the older hunter sit back and relax into the seat. Then, doing his best to put all anxieties regarding the sofa far, far out of his mind, Sam addressed his brother with toned down eagerness on a matter he _hoped_ wasn't off limits.  
"So, is Cas your first...?"

"Real relationship in years? Go figure," Dean said with an amused snort.

"Right," Sam huffed a laugh at the reply. "Uh, is he also your first...?"

"First 'he'?" Dean let out a sigh, hitching eyebrows up and back down before continuing. "Nope. First _serious_ he? You c'n bet yer sweet ass."

For a moment, Sam wasn't quite sure how to take that comment about his 'sweet ass', but as the split second past, he remembered who it was sitting across from him and the fact that his brother said that pretty frequently and to any _number_ of people.  
This new revelation might take a little more getting used to than Sam was proud to admit to himself. Especially considering he had less than no problems with _any_ of it. Had in fact thought that Dean and Cas might've had a little something extra between them for the longest time.  
What with Cas referencing their 'profound bond' as often as he did, but never with any kind of explanation as to what that could possibly mean.

Oh great. Sam was doing that thing again. The one where he didn't so much as indicate he'd heard a word Dean'd _shared_. He really needed to save the introspection for some other time.  
So he cleared his throat and, with all aplomb intact, asked a question that'd been burning at the back of his mind ever since he'd caught the reunited 'not dates' sharing a tender moment in a room you couldn't _tempt_ Sam near again. "How come... it's never come up before? Did Dad know?" Oops. Threw out two at once.

"Well, Sammy, mostly because, like you said: It never came up before." When Sam offered no challenge to that, the sudden defensive set to Dean's jaw slackened and he averted his eyes. Perhaps regretting the slight snap.  
"I never brought it up for the same reason it never came up. Not relevant."

"That you're bi isn't relevant?" Now Sam was regretting his own slight snap, but, looking at his brother, he was relieved to see absolutely no offense taken. Actually more of an 'I deserved that' look. Which was just as bad, if you asked Sam, but he let it slip in favor of keeping the conversation going.

"Dad..." Looking like he was chewing the inside of his lip, Dean studied the area rug between their seats before taking a breath and going on. "Back before Mom died, the first time, Dad didn't approve of anything but the 'standard setup'."

"You would have been four, or _younger_. How could you possibly know that?" Sam asked, nothing but curiosity in his voice.

"You remember playgrounds, right?" Sam nodded, thinking that was a curveball of a subject change. "Hard to believe, I know, but your big bro used to hang in one before you came along. By the house. Mom or Dad or both'd walk me. Sit on a bench. Say weird things like ,'Wow, that's _so_ cool' when I showed 'em a worm."

"That sounds... strikingly normal," Sam commented, not sure how he felt about Dean having gotten 'normal' for his formative years. Aware at the same time that he could never blame a toddler for the way their lives had turned out.

"Yeah. Guess it was." Dean said, looking almost as if he wanted to hide and never mention that part of the past again. Probably saw something on Sam's face his little bro hadn't meant to let show.  
Damn.

"But, how does a local playground translate to a homophobic Dad?" Sam prompted, making an effort at smoothing out any stray thought that might be showing on his face.

Dean huffed, like he was both hesitant to continue and tired of having his story interrupted. "Girl from a couple streets down, Lucy I think, singled me out one day. Asked if I wanted to hold hands. 'Figured, 'Why the hell not?' So we flaunted that awhile."

"I still don't-" Sam started when the story paused, but shut his mouth right quick. Reminding himself what a normal conversation with Dean was like and that just leaving room for him to continue was generally the best course of action.  
Turned out the right move once again.

"Her mom and our mom and dad thought it was cute; gigglin' and lookin' all happy. So naturally, anytime someone wanted to hold hands, I was first in line. Until..."

"Until?"

"Until one day it was a kid named Jason and I couldn't'a cared less that he had the same haircut and pronoun as me."

"Dad was there?"

"Yup."

"Did he... do something?"

Dean nodded, giving the middle distance a good stare before flicking his eyes back up and nodding a second time. "He walked up, took a knee so he didn't look giant, and gentler than you'd guess, pulled us apart. Sayin' something 'bout how, 'That's not how little boys play,' or... something." And he went back to staring into the middle distance.

If Sam had his way, he'd be asking how that experience had impacted a baby version of his brother. Whether feeling like he'd disappointed his dad, as he clearly had felt, had changed the way he saw playtime. Or even, if he'd ever showed another worm to their dad.  
But Sam knew that what _Dean_ needed, was someone to 'hm' that they understood, and let him choose what to say next. No questions asked.

"I just figured," Dean said, tearing his attention from the enticement of the nothingness between them, "if happy Dad didn't approve of sandbox hand holding; angry Dad wouldn't wanna hear about me making the occasional Fresh-man Prince blush."

"Wait, Henry? Henry from _Bell Air_ \- Well, Bell Air _area_?" Sam asked, both thankful for and slightly impressed by the helpful wordplay. "I thought you dated his sister."

"Heh, and he dated his sister's 'best friend'."

"And the four of you double dated to the winter formal..." Sam trailed off as the cogs in his head led him off road to places he'd never before thought to explore.

"Double beards, baby!" Dean exclaimed, nearly startling Sam when he clapped his hands together with a mirthful whoop.

Sam couldn't help but smile along. Glad Dean'd found something happy to share.  
"But then, how'd you and Henry leave the dance with lipstick smudges that matched your 'dates'? And Henry's sister... Tessa, and..."

"Gloria?"

"Yeah, Tessa and Gloria looked perfect." Sam said, baffled and feeling like he needed to re-evaluate his _own_ life right around then.

"Yeah, well, teenagers can be sneaky when they need to," Dean said, answering just about _non_ of Sam's numerable questions.  
"'Specially queer, scared shitless ones," he added, the fond expression not falling from his face. He looked Sam straight in the eye for a second before adding, "'Taught them a little self defense for good measure. On the walks home from the movies. Even had a would be mugger to demonstrate on one night." The guy recounting this tale of obviously life threatening adversity gave his few day stubble a rub, looking like he'd enjoy revisiting the hellhole of a middle slash high school they'd attended while their dad had 'business' in the City Of Angels.

"Wow. Now that I think about it, the four of you went on a _lot_ of double dates."

"Had to get our kicks while the kickin' was good. Went into it knowing it was a short term engagement. Show was pullin' outta town soon as work dried up for dear old Dad and... Well, y'know." Sam watched as his brother shrugged and, probably unintentionally, displayed the first strictly melancholy emotion of his 'morning'.

"Yeah. Though, even back then, L.A. was one of the best cities in the country for open alternative lifestyle relationships."

"True 'nough. Knucklehead who tried to rob us didn't look twice at who was holding who's hand."

"Heh, right. Not a good neighborhood for anybody on foot."

"Definitely not. Hope those kids are still... y'know, _kickin'_."

"If you want to know for sure, it's a few keystrokes away?" Sam offered, moving a hand in the general direction of his personal laptop.

"Naw. I mean: maybe sometime. But we went our separate ways on good terms and with no sugar coatings. We knew it was goodbye and at least Tessa had no reason to say 'bye' to her 'BFF'."

"Sounds like those siblings were really good to each other. Good _for_ each other," Sam observed, remembering how the close in age duo had always had each other's back.

"...We were too. _Are_." Dean said, voice firmer with each word.

"I know. That's how we made it," Sam heaved a sigh, "here. And now."

"...Wouldn'ta made it this far without you. The whole **funeral** and the full mourning... Thanks for being here," Dean said, picking at something on the knee of one pant leg.

"Of _course_ \- I mean," Sam caught himself at the last second. Almost committing the cardinal sin of responding to vulnerability with sincerity. "I didn't really have anywhere else to be."

"Ha, good one," Dean said, dour expression not deepening but breaking. To Sam's relief.

"Uh, thanks. And... you're welcome," he couldn't resist.

"I know."

"Good," Sam said, brooking no argument. To which Dean just chuckled. Inadvertently creating a chuckle-a-thon which went on far longer than self respecting hunters were strictly allowed to tough giggle in the presence of others. But if it was family? The occasional exception _could_ be made.

"Oh, I'm _so_ not missing 'full mourning'," Dean said, wiping a little moisture from one eye.

"Me neither. I'm glad Cas is back, man. I missed him."

"You and me both, brother. You and me both."

The two of them sat there, happy bellies digesting a delicious _and_ healthy breakfast, in peace for at least a minute's time. Giving Sam the opening to work up a little courage to go with his next sentence.  
"Hey, and this isn't meant to be accusatory or- or anything," he paused in case Dean had reservations he needed to voice.

Instead he got an, "Okay. Shoot," along with an 'I won't bite' look. So Sam took a breath and dove in.

"All our lives... Why didn't you tell me?"

Sam watched as a wry smile crinkled Dean's mouth. "Does the put down, 'That's _gay_ ,' ring any bells?"

Sam felt his cheeks going red as he fought to keep a deep mortification from buying up all the prime real estate on his face.  
"We were kids- I was like, eleven maybe. _Everyone_ was saying it and I didn't even know what it meant. I don't think most of those kids did..."

"Yeah, I figured. But try tellin' that to fifteen year old, not chancing Dad finding out me and see how that works."

"Good point."

"Right?"

"But why not after? Anytime after?"

"After? Our lives've been pretty... Neither of us've been 'out there' in a while. Honestly hasn't felt relevant in a long time."

"Until yesterday, at breakfast? That was- That was you telling me, wasn't it?" Sam asked with dawning realization.

"Huh. Hadn't thought of it that way. But, naw. I think that was you telling _me_. Gave me some perspective."

"Gave _myself_ some perspective."

"Huh?"

"Nothing," Sam said, cool as a cucumber. Glad he'd mumbled the ill placed thought, not being at all interested in Dean knowing that his little brother had walked in on him kissing a fresh from the resurrection angel the day before.  
Things were awkward enough without that hanging out in the open between the two of them.

Before Dean could push for a _real_ answer, the bunker door opened and an unmistakable trench coat made its flourish of an arrival known.  
"I'm home!"

"We can see you from here, Cas," Sam said, offering the one sitting across from him a look that read: Not having second thoughts, are you?  
All in obvious, good natured jest and _all_ to rile up a big brother who had somehow gotten through a morning with nary an ounce of sibling originated drama. Or, _barely_ an ounce, anyway.

It won Sam a 'Really?' eyebrow, which wasn't a bad consolation prize in the grand scheme of things, and the two moved to meet Cas in the commons. Barely rising an inch each before hearing protest from halfway down the entrance stairs.

"Don't get up on account of little old me. I'll join you-" and before the figure from the foyer could register as having disappeared, he was already sitting with one arm draped over Dean's shoulders. Causing both brothers to jump and make aborted attempts at grabbing weapons. "Now. Hello, Dean. Sam."

"Cas?"

"Cas. How was... Rome?"

"Ah, so Dean mentioned my visit."

"Yeah, how's Ballina? Still kickin' ass and takin' names?"

"Bellona is well, but she no longer commands legions into wreaths of fire and brimstone. Now she finds satisfaction in the recognition, recogniz _ing_ , and blessing of righteous warriors. You two," he said glancing between the brothers, "are known to her already. She likes you."

"Can't imagine why," Sam watched his brother scoff out the joke, looking more at ease under the protective arm of his angel than he ever had in the blissful arms of a restful sleep. Even in the backseat of his Baby.

"Because: you are both honorable warriors of the highest caliber who've-"

"Thanks, Cas," Sam soothed, "we got it. Dean was just-"

"Joking! Just joking," the one in question said around a goofy grin.

"Alright then. Well, it looks as though you have had an eventful morning. I- Oh, yes." Cas adjusted himself so he was facing Dean more so than Sam. "Bellona wanted me to tell you that she no longer requires blood sacrifices from her fealty, but that the sword is loathe to part with tradition. She thinks that not touching it again is the smartest course of action."

"Hey, I wasn't looking for a repeat. That last time hurt like a-"

"Wait, Dean. You _touched_ that thing? But it's **obviously** the most cursed- What on earth _possessed_ you to-"

"I did." Cas cut in, pulling two sets of eyes straight to his face. "Well, in a manner of speaking, anyway. He tried to kill me with it. With impeccable form," he added at the twin incredulous looks he found trained on him.

"You **used** that- that-"

"Sword? 'Cause that's sure all it looked like to me. Just a pretty sword hangin' on a plain old wall, in need of some attention."

"Did you ever stop to read the instructions hanging with it? Even _glance_ at- Wait. You tried to kill Cas?"

" _Now_ he hears it," Dean said, an eye roll expressing handily his thoughts on this line of questioning.

"Yes. He thought I was fake. A shapeshifter or a dream he could conduct a long, lucid conversation with."

"Dude!?" Dean demanded. Receiving nothing for his troubles.

"When did this happen?" Sam asked, worry for his brother showing through his worry for Cas.

"Directly before you came upon us engaged in our first of **many** -"

"Right before the **_kiss_**?"

"You _saw_ that?!"

"Do not be shy, Dean. It was a pure thing and your brother minds only that you wish to keep it private. Sam approves." The two on the sofa looked to Sam for confirmation. One with a rather accusing glint in his eyes which promised that this better be good.

"I, uh- I was coming to check on you," Sam said, a desperation to be believed pushing his own eyes a little wider than was strictly comfortable. "It was dinner time and-"

"And you thought you'd catch a quick peep show while-"

"Dean, that is not fair to Sam. He truly was worried for you and he didn't stare any longer than you would have," Cas reasoned in the younger's defense.

"You were _staring_?!" Dean was stopped from leaping off the couch and presumably going for a headlock by the angelic arm around his shoulders. Coupled with the one that had just come up to wrap around his front to engulf him in a strange sort of off kilter hug.

"Has anyone ever mentioned that when you get authoritative, your eyes glint with a righteous determination?" Sam watched mesmerized as Cas leaned in until his lips were a breath from the side of Dean's head, looking like he was barely holding himself back from nibbling the guy's ear.  
"It 'turns me on'," he growled. The tiniest Enochian accent only rattling one weird vase on the side table right next to him.

Aaand there was that look Sam'd never wanted to see again, plastered all over an older sibling who he couldn't deny deserved every ounce of joy he could squeeze out of this miracle.

As the two disappeared to parts unknown, their forgotten party member musing that he was gonna have to get used to that type of exit, Sam reminded himself to be thankful for Cas's thoughtful, non-expositionary nature and for the fact that their family was once again complete. Or as close to complete as they were used to it being.  
Minus their recently returned and more recently re-departed maternal figure, but Sam wasn't counting her completely out just yet.

Sighing, glad at least that the ceiling wasn't raining asbestos into his hair, Sam pulled his laptop over onto his lap. Figuring at least one person around here ought to get some work done while the sun was out.

His stomach growling, Sam looked up from his screen for the first time in quite a while. Realizing he'd yet to find a single fishy story nor any kind of lead. Just in time for lunch too.  
So he closed his crime busting pc and set it aside just as his older brother sauntered out of his hallway. Looking punch drunk and far happier than he had any right to-  
Never mind, thought Sam as he watched another figure follow the first on a beeline for the most popular room in the bunker. This time of day anyway.  
The kitchen.

Smiling to himself, resigned to preparing food in close quarters with a couple of twitterpated adults, Sam stood and joined the procession.

"Huh. Weird. Anyone else craving bologna?" At the question, Sam, Cas, and even the one who'd asked stopped just inside the entrance to the kitchen, glanced at the others, and bust out laughing.

Yep, Sam admitted, giving his hair a swipe back out of his face: everything was looking up for Team Free Will. Now if they could only make it through lunch without anyone disappearing...

 **Heehee, there's a chapter four coming your way soon! Until then: Hope ya'll enjoyed this addition and that everyone's having a great week!  
~Anonymous**


	4. The Not Date

**Remember this heartfelt note from chapter three?**

 **"Dean and I have taken 'Baby' and are driving to a local food serving establishment for sustenance. Dean calls it dinner and not a date. We don't date. We're not twelve. Just put the pen down and-**  
 **Sorry, Sam. Maybe next time you can have the honorable designation of 'third wheel' and accompany- Never mind. Dean said, 'No way in Hell. He can find his own damn date.' Which I find confusing, as I'd just been informed that your brother and I were not, in fact, 'dating'.**  
 **Ah. He's started the engine. If we're back before you read this, he'll probably burn it. So if you like this note, I suggest putting it somewhere Dean will never see it again.**  
 **Sincerely yours, Castiel - Angel Of The Lord - Perhaps Date Of Your Older Brother**

 **Chapter four picks up where the note left off. ;D**

Dean hadn't been on a date in a _long_ -ass time, and his nerves were playing up something fierce. He kept needing to remind his fingers to loosen up around the wheel or he'd chance messing up the steering cover. Which was something he didn't want to do.  
He liked this one.

Cas sitting shotgun, staring out each and every window in turn as if expecting a glance at Bigfoot, wasn't doing anything to calm the gallop Dean's heart wasn't backing down from. In fact, the guy's overly alert state was making things worse and Dean found he could hardly hear his music over the rush of anxiety in his own ears.  
Cas hadn't complained about the music and Dean kept catching the brunet bopping his head to it whenever he thought he wasn't being watched.

So far, Cas was shaping up to be much better driving company than his tasteless little brother was just about any day of the week. Except for the reality of their current destination fogging things up, Dean would have been happy as a clam. Unfortunately, he couldn't stop thinking about it:  
A restaurant. Where they served food. And where he and Cas were going to get a booth and _sit_ together and eat. In public.

Sure, he'd eaten in public with Sam or Cas or Sam _and_ Cas more times than he could possibly count, but never in all that time had he _guessed_ he'd ever be doing it for any purpose other than filling his pie hole and talking business.  
Courtship was about as far removed as you got from his 'usual' MO. Even before the world had gone to hell in a hand basket he hadn't been much of the dinner and schmooze type.  
More the catch 'em _after_ dinner and schmooze type.

"I find it enchanting that a human can have such a high register, yet such control of vocal rasp. Robert Plant is one of my favorites," Cas said as the singer of the same name warned about a 'mean old levy' about to break.

"You like Zeppelin? I didn't know you _listened_ to music," Dean took his eyes off the streetlightless highway just long enough to make eye contact with his passenger before putting his attention front again.

"Yes. I have." Cas reached up for the dashboard and fiddled with the closest air vent, angling it down and away even though nothing was coming through them. "Sam has spoken his distaste for your choice in listening material over the years. I eventually became curious as to what he could possibly dislike so."

"So you became a Led-head? Out of curiosity?"

"I listened to everything Sam had ever voiced objection to and it turned out... I liked it." Cas turned in his seat on the bench, the immaculate leather upholstery making the barest complaint as he did, and faced the driver. "You have a wonderful taste in music."

"Huh. Never thought I'd hear the day."

"It's true. I'd thought the artists of the renaissance period were brilliant. Turned out, they got better four hundred years later."

"Wait, _the_ renaissance? You mean like, Leonardo, Donatello, Raphael, and Michelangelo?" Dean asked, surprised enough by the statement that he found himself searching the guy's face for any sign of a joke.

"Yes. Among others. Uh, you may want to keep your eyes on the road."

"Huh?"

"We're drifting."

"Oh, shit," Dean intoned, correcting the wheel and glueing his eyes back to the darkened road.

"The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are included in my idea of the most modern artistic resurgence."

"You know the TMNT? Eastman and Laird?" The driver asked without taking his attention off his navigating.

"I have the entirety of relevant modern pop culture floating around in my head. Metatron put it there," Cas added.

"That explains a few things," the only response Dean could scrounge up.

"I suppose it would," Cas acknowledged. Sounding as if he wasn't sure what 'things' the information might clear up.  
"Where is this place we'll be eating? Will they have hamburgers?"

Dean ignored how big a shift in topic that felt like and answered with a question. "Got a craving?"

"Hm. The affinity for red meat has never left me. Even with the passing of this vessel's original occupant, Mr. Novak."

"Poor dude. But y'know," Dean started, chancing a glance toward shotgun, "him being gone? You could call it 'your body', if ya want. Since no one else owns it."

"The thought hadn't crossed my mind." Cas said, after a pause. Then, after another, "I'll give that a shot."

"Cool. How do you like having your very own body? It all it's cracked up to be?"

"It's like having a vessel, except it's private and never feels crowded. Probably quite similar to how you feel in your body," Cas said, reaching out and adjusting the same little vent toward the ceiling now.

"Like that, huh? In that case: Welcome to being human. Hope you like it more'n most."

"I still possess divine grace and therefore still fit the classification of angel. But... I _have_ grown rather fond of the notion of blending in with the human populace."

"Yeah, doesn't make you sound like some creepy, mad scientist anthropologist at all." Before Castiel's intake of air could become an argument in his defense, Dean wagged a finger on the steering wheel in his direction and added, "I think I get what you're sayin'. About blending in. Never got the hang of it myself."

"You and your brother _are_ both quite tall."

"No argument there."

"Argument elsewhere?"

"Nope. Just... wasn't what I was talkin' 'bout."

After a pregnant pause, filled by Cas running his off hand against the well conditioned door interior, shotgun cleared his throat and took a wild guess.  
"You refer to your job?"

"Bingo."

"Being a hunter sets you apart from the majority of humans in a visceral, difficult to breach way. That is why you are so fortunate to have others with whom you may discuss monsters and demons and-"

"While I agree wholeheartedly, I was kinda hopin' for an evening free of shop talk," Dean said, not liking the way his jaw set stiff at the mention of his given, if not chosen, profession.

Perhaps Cas noticed the less than happy turn, because the next time his mouth opened, an obvious change of subject rolled out.  
"So this place will have hamburgers?"

Dean snickered under his breath and drummed his fingers against the wheel. "Only the best for a fellow classic rock junky."

"Wonderful. Though, I may be needing two if the flavor agrees with me."

"Hungry?"

"It _has_ been a while since I last ate," reasoned the recently revived angel.

"Guess pushin' up daisies'll work up an appetite."

"You sound as if you know what you're talking about."

"I've come back to life a time or two," Dean said, hoping only good humor poked through the joke.  
Judging by the way his passenger went quiet, there might've been a little something else mixed in there. Not the most promising start to a first evening out, and that thought got him nervous all over again.

"Yes. Even for hunters, you and Sam have seen more than your fair shares of hardship."

"You're no lightweight yourself. Going up against heaven 'many times as you have? You'd think they'd'a learned to leave an angel **alone**."

Cas fiddled this time with a vent nearer the driver side of the cab, closing and opening it before responding. "Does this qualify as 'shop talk'?"

"Right. My bad. Uh," Dean resisted the temptation to squeeze his eyes shut as he scrambled for something else to say. "Hamburgers, right?" He could practically _hear_ the crack of a small smile on his passenger's face.

"That would be perfect."

"Alrighty then. I know just the place," said while using both index fingers to point at a large sign poking above the natural privacy screen of darkened trees that read, Patty's Diner. Complete with a larger than life picture of exactly the food they were on the lookout for: A smiling, flickering, neon red hamburger.  
'Patty' had this marketing thing figured _out_ , Dean mused with a wry grin as he took the turn off the highway.

"I appreciate their witty use of pun humor," Cas said, preoccupied by the glowing effigy of exactly what he'd been dreaming of sinking his teeth into.

"You and me both," Dean said, pulling the keys from the ignition and popping his door open. "Time to get our eat on."

"Yes. My stomach feels as if it is threatening to turn on me and begin digesting itself."

"That's all kinds of messed up, man. We're here to fix that though, so no worries. After you," Dean said, holding the diner door open for his not date. Grinning as a faint jingle announced their arrival to the apparently empty diner.

"Welcome to Patty's! Party of two?" Came the confident tone of the only person in the place, who seemed to be sliding a book of crosswords discreetly below the top of her lectern-podium thing. The kind waiters and seaters all across the country had for holding menus and taking down reservation names and generally looking like a total bad ass behind.

"Yep." Dean confirmed letting the door shut itself soon as he and Cas were completely out of its way.

"And we are both very hungry and would like a booth." Cas added. Helpfully.

"Sure thang. Right this way," and with that she was off, waving with the arm not laden with menus for Cas and Dean to follow and settling them into a cozy spot adjacent to the kitchen.  
Dean marveled at the efficiency of her movements as she'd set a menu in front of each, pulled out a pad and pen, and gave the booth a friendly _look_.  
"Good evenin', my name's Ruth and I'll be your server. I'mma take a guess for drinks and say... coffee?"

"Yes, and I will have your most delicious hamburger." Cas blurted, sounding as if he couldn't keep it in a second longer and hadn't actually heard a word the nice lady by the table had said. "Please." Cas tacked on the good manners just a beat late. As if he'd forgotten them for a second.

"Alright. And for your date?" At the incredulous double takes from the booth, Ruth smiled and huffed a chuckle out her nose. "We get all types through here; ain't nothing to hide 'bout." Leaning closer to the table, she mimed a stage whisper to her captive audience. "'Other day, we had a whole passel of goths blow through." She straightened, fixing a loose strand of peppered brunette hair back behind her ear, and held her pen and pad out at the ready once more, "'Course, that's what ya get bein' so close to the interstate."

"You're tellin' me, Sister," agreed Dean, blowing out a relieved breath as he smiled to match hers.

"This is our first not date," Cas told the perfect stranger by the table. Followed by, "Our first kiss was shared not one hour ago." Earning one of the most aghast expressions Dean had ever felt his own face make.

"Y'don't say. I'd'a thought ya'll'd've been together awhile. You lookin' so comfortable and all," Ruth offered. The hand with the pen moving to rest against an aproned hip. Staggeringly, not appearing fazed by the bald faced truth.

"We have been brothers in arms for years."

"I should'a guessed! Ya'll lookin' so military like. Active duty or retired?"

"Um," Dean said, trying to get his tablemate's attention as their order taker looked between the two of them. Probably searching for silver hairs and laugh lines.

"We come when we are needed."

"Oh, active reserve? Well that's just fine. We offer military discounts all year round, so if nothin' else; the coffee is on the house."

"Thank you. That is generous." Dean watched Cas say it as if there wasn't a thing wrong with the way the conversation had turned out. As if he hadn't just shared deeply intimate information with a complete stranger.

"Naw. What's generous," Ruth started, shifting her weight more to one leg, "is the free refills. And the portions- So tell me, Sarge, what'll it be?"

Dean, rather caught off guard by the sudden nickname and flourish of Ruth's pen, fumbled the menu he'd been about to open and said the first full sentence that came to mind.  
"I'll have same thing he's havin'." Complete with a thumb jabbed in Cas's direction.

"Alrighty, boys, this'll be up in two shakes. Anythin' else I can get you?"

"We'll be ordering an additional meal to go before we leave. His brother eats proportionally to his size, which is substantial."

The one sporting the tidy bun looked to Dean for confirmation and bust out in a snorting laugh when he put one flat hand on the top of his head and moved it an exaggerated eight inches higher.

"Well, good to know gigantism runs in the family! I'll get yer coffees to start ya'll off." With that, she walked off to put their order in, leaving one menu on the table presumably in case they still needed it for the take out.

Dean picked it up and began perusing the Daily Specials and Chef's Specials before moving on to the beverage page. Glancing up briefly when the establishment's lone waitress dropped off their 'blacker'n tar' brews.

"Would you recommend I add copious amounts of cream and sugar to this... coffee? Bitter is not my favorite flavor," Dean heard Cas ask as he flipped to the Salads and Soups section.

"If there's room in the cup."

"There is, but... she didn't leave any cream and sugar on the table," said a Cas starting to sound just a little bit lost.

"Must've thought a couple'a big 'army guys' like us wouldn't want any." Dean mumbled as he read what came in the Famous Chicken Caesar. Wondering if they should order that for Sam as he listened to the sounds of Cas turning this way and that in his booth seat. Then to the merry sounds of Ruth greeting what was either a couple of horses, or a group of no fewer than four people in hard heeled boots coming in to grab some dinner. Noisy enough to go either way, you asked him.

"...I found some on the table behind ours," said Cas, followed closely by the sound of either sand or diner sugar being poured liberally into a mug.  
Dean glanced up to make sure Cas wasn't making a grave mistake, then went back to the picture of a grilled cheese sandwich next to the Best Tomato Soup In The County. Voted Three Years Running.  
Hm. Tempting.

"Awesome," came Dean's belated reply. Right before the sound of a ridiculous amount of creamer being added to the cup o' joe filled the booth. Right as Ruth was walking near to fill the drink order of the new group seated just out of view.

"Oh, I'm sorry! I brought ya the dark roast without even askin'. You want somethin' lighter, Sweety?"

"Thank you, but I think I've figured it out. It's perfectly fine."

"Alrighty then," she said, swinging the corner into the kitchen area.  
Wasn't long until she zipped past laden down with drinks, came back through to the kitchen with an empty tray, and once more presented herself at their table.  
"Here's yer burgers, and an order of fries we ain't gon' charge you for." Dean looked up when she set down their food and leaned in like earlier, ready to share another diner secret.  
"Patty says they'd been sittin' under the lamp long as they could, so best give 'em to our boys in blue before we gotta chuck 'em." She straightened and crossed her arms. "Didn't have the heart to tell her ya'll're army, not police." She shook her head while pursing out an amused smile.

"Uh, I'm sure they'll be appreciated," Cas assured, rather distracted as he worked on picking up his hamburger.

"No problem. Just let me know ya'll need anything!" And with that, she went to check back on her other table.

"I doubt I will be needing another. This is the largest hamburger I have ever seen," Cas said, a hint of wonder prompting Dean to tear his gaze from the amateur photo gallery of a decent selection of mouth watering pies.

"Yep." Those were big burgers alright.

"The most delicious too," Cas said around what must have been a bite as big as your average adult's fist. Judging by how hard it was for Dean to parse the words.

"Hm," Dean hummed in response. Listening to a giant mouthful being chewed and summarily swallowed. Then to the surprising sound of the reportedly delicious burger being placed back on its plate.

"Dean, are you ignoring me?" Asked an angel who definitely sounded a little lost.

"What makes you think that?" Dean asked, casual as ever.

"You have not looked at me since we placed our order."

"'M reading the menu. For Sam," came the perfectly reasoned response.

"While that is thoughtful, I do believe the point of an exclusive activity such as this is to spend time together and make attempts at getting to know more about-"

"Is telling details about your love life to everything that breathes on that itinerary?" Dean asked, tone flat. Still studying the last page of pictures.

"Ah. You feel I should not have told our server the details of our... 'love life'?" Cas asked, sounding as if he thought Dean was being a bit ridiculous.  
"You are embarrassed?"

At that, Dean closed the menu, made eye contact with the guy who hadn't so much as touched his abomination of a cup of coffee, and pushed the ordering aide to the farthest edge of the table.  
"I couldn't be embarrassed about us if I tried." Came out with a little bite around the edges, which he hadn't meant it to, so he reigned it in for the next bit. "I... I just-" Dean let out a low breath and scrubbed a hand across his face. "You never know how someone's gonna react to that kinda thing. It's like opening with, 'Monsters are real and I kill them for a living.' Not the best idea."

Dean watched as Cas picked up his coffee, took a sip, cringed, set the cup back down and slid it to keep the unwanted menu company, then swept his eyes back up to meet his.  
"You liken us," Cas indicated the both of them, "what we have, to something monstrous? The kind of thing even we would prefer not to talk about?"

Dean felt his mouth go dry.

"Our joy was a long time in coming. Joy is meant to be shared. Tell me, Dean," Cas said, shifting closer on his bench until his knees touched the other set under the table. "What are you worried about?"  
When all Dean did was give the black coffee in the mug by his own elbow a hard look, Cas sighed.  
"Truly, Dean," the angel insisted, setting an arm on the table to match his not date's and slowly sliding it across. "What is the worst that could happen?" To punctuate the question, a worn human hand was taken in a gentle, slightly burger greased one.

Dean couldn't help the involuntary bunch of his fingers, nor the reflexive glance around their side of the diner, at the contact.

"There is no one here to see us," Cas reassured, gripping just a little firmer.

"I've-" Dean cleared his throat, gazing with what he hoped wasn't an open longing look, but what sure as hell _felt_ like one, at the pair of hands on the table.  
He swallowed and looked his real life date in the eye. "I've met a lot of people, over the years, who'd sooner call you out back for an ass whoopin' than watch you hold hands with the 'wrong person'."

"Would they then cordially solicit sex while in the anonymity of the 'out back'?" Cas asked, steady hand once again gripping with a gentle reassurance. Then, to the question Dean felt all over his own face, Cas explained, "I have heard that many of those most violently opposed to gay relationships are themselves living a painful, often self-imposed, closeted life."

Dean couldn't help the derisive chuckle, even as he knew he could never begrudge Cas his optimistic nature.  
He looked back at their hands, slotted together in a way that felt scarily _right_ , before bursting Cas's bubble. "If that's what they were after, they wouldn't ask nicely."

Dean felt the entire booth twitch as its other occupant realized the implication.  
"You mean-"

"Yeah. 'Think if they only ever take by force, then they're just putting folks in their place. Don't have to admit to themselves that they want what the other guy has..." After a pause, Dean added, "Plus, they're plain twisted to begin with."

"To do something so base? Twisted would only be the beginning." Cas leaned closer across the tabletop. "Why have I not heard of-"

"Doesn't really get talked about," Dean said with a shrug. "Nobody wants to admit that _any_ body could be taken advantage of. Would harsh their mellow." Dean picked up his extra-black coffee in his free hand and took a big sip, glad that it had cooled enough to not burn. Also glad that he enjoyed coffee in all its varied forms and preparations, 'cause this one was _really_ dark.

"...Has this happened to-"

"Naw. Just: You see a few things, hear a few things," Dean shrugged, "'few close calls. You learn to play things close to the vest."

"Dean, that sounds awful."

"Yeah, well, good thing Papa John taught his kids to fight young." When the word play seemed lost on Cas, Dean cleared his throat. "That's how it goes. For some. All across the US of A and probably most other-" he cut himself off when he felt a third hand join the two on the table and looked up to find his paw being rearranged for sandwiching between both belonging to the guy pushing a set of knees flusher against his.  
When Dean looked into the face across the table, he was struck by the caring sincerity in those nearly human eyes.

"I'm sorry for what you've seen and what you've lived through. I truly am, and I'll always be here if you need to talk. So will Sam." Dean felt his mouth quirk in a half smile at that. "I must also inform you that that harrowing description is one of how it _used_ to go, Dean. The world has changed. Enough so that _this_ ," Cas said, drawing attention to the clasped hands in the middle of their table, "is no longer seen as something monstrous."

They stared at each other until the approach of strange feet sounded from around the corner, to which Dean blushed and made a reluctant, halfhearted attempt to take his hand back.

"It's alright," he saw Cas mouth.  
Anticipating their being seen, Dean held his breath and forced his eyes to stay open. Ready for anything.

A set of those hard boots he'd heard enter earlier rounded the corner and would have gone straight past them if Cas hadn't opened his mouth and asked a question.  
"Excuse me, Mam?"

"Yeah?" Said the tall blonde in full motorcycle enthusiast regalia. Pausing in all politeness but looking like she had somewhere important she needed to be.

"Does seeing this make you uncomfortable?" Cas asked, indicating where his hands had Dean's trapped between them. Out in the open.

She gave the sight a moment's consideration, then addressed Cas with a rather amused expression. "No."

"I see. Thank you."

"No prob," she said, continuing on her way to... the bathroom, as it turned out.

When Dean looked back to Cas, there was a muted smile waiting for him that warmed his nervous heart.

"See? 'No prob'. She is but one example of the changing times."

"Exactly. Just one," Dean said, pointing out the hole in that line of logic. Allowing himself to feel comforted by the observation regardless. And by the grip his hand was still caught in. "Who knows what any of her friends think, or her parents, or-"

"Dean," Castiel interrupted. Smile widening. "What's the worst that could happen?" He asked, leaning a hair closer across the table. "I'm an _Angel_."

At the ridiculous raising of an angelic eyebrow, neither of them could hold in a good chortle. By the end of which, Dean felt his shoulders drop, relaxing better than they had since he'd gotten behind the wheel. Then, when an out of control flushing sounded and Boots exited the lone bathroom, they only rode back up about half what he would have expected.  
His hand didn't try to escape that time.

"Have a nice date," the one in the black and gold, reinforced jacket said as she made her way back towards her party's table.

"Thank you."

"Yeah, thanks," Dean said, watching her disappear around the corner. Feeling Cas's eyes on the side of his head, he set his own front again and almost laughed when he saw the proud look beaming back at him.  
Clearing his throat, Dean involuntarily ducked his head and wrapped his loose hand around his still warm cup of coffee. "Okay, you win. Faith in humanity restored; I'm _starving_ , and I heard this place makes a mean burger." He flicked his gaze up in time to see the smile.

"I believe the adjective I used was 'Delicious'."

"Ah. Well, I sit corrected."

"Heh. Would you like to try yours?" Cas asked, giving the hand sandwich a squeeze.

"With _that_ recommendation?"

"Superlative?"

"Absolutely."

"Hm. Then let's dig in," Cas suggested, surrendering one sandwich for another he'd all but forgotten minutes earlier.

"Somethin' wrong with the food, boys?" Asked their busy server, pushing her way through the kitchen door, tray absolutely lousy with plates and food, just as her first table was swallowing what appeared to be their first bites.

"No, thank you, Ruth. These are delicious," Cas said, glancing at Dean for confirmation.

Dean blinked at him once, then wiped the back of one hand across his mouth to be sure he was decent, and turned in his booth seat towards the intrepid hostess. "What he said. We were just busy holding hands for a while there." It was Cas's turn to churn out an incredulous expression and Dean had to admit, it was a good look on him. Especially when it started softening around the edges and crinkled at the corners of his eyes.

"Well, don't stop on account of me. Enjoy an' lemme know if ya'll need anything!" And she was gone and Cas was still staring at him.

"Guess you were right. 'Earth didn't open up and swallow us whole. Sky isn't falling."

"I think she likes us," Cas opined, right before inhaling another inhumanly large mouthful of his hamburger.

"I bet she'll like us more if these burgers are gone when she comes back," Dean said, raising both eyebrows.

"Is that a challenge?" Came the barely decipherable question.

"Only if you want it to be."

Cas swallowed, face tinged with a hint of regret. "...I have a head start."

"I have more experience eating."

"In that case: You're _on_ ," the last words spoken before two civilized individuals got grease and ketchup **all** over.

Upon returning from a quick bathroom break of his own, largely to clean the ridiculous ketchup smeared on himself and have a clandestine place to lick that dollop off his collar, Dean saw their waitress walking off with a smile on her face and their other menu in hand.

"Huh?" The all encompassing question he asked, taking his seat and gesturing after the direction Ruth'd just disappeared.

"I ordered for Sam. And I ordered dessert. Dutch Apple a la mode." Dean's eyes went wide as the words registered.  
"Don't worry; he'll like it." Cas assured. "It's rabbit food." After a short pause the Angel waited for his not date to fill, he continued. Just a touch of sheepishness changing his posture. "I saw you linger on the Pie Selection and I know you like ice-"

"I love you." Dean blurted, the words hanging between them with almost a ringing quality. Dean's eyes growing all the wider when he realized what he'd just said. Out loud. In public.

Before Dean could do anything drastic, like go hide in the Impala, Cas got his attention by pushing his knees against his tablemate's once again, and whispered, "I love you too, Dean."

A soft clack broke the momentary trance and Dean looked up to see Ruth, their waitress, setting a few napkins folded around some silverware to one side of a solitary, _generous_ slice of mouthwatering pie. The ice cream on top just beginning to show signs of milky sweat beading along its dome.

"Here ya go, one house special! 'Hope yer brother enjoys his dinner like I _know_ ya'll're gonna like this. He in the service too?"

After a short period of sitting there looking slightly dazed, Cas popped his mouth open and gave the nice lady the information she'd requested. "Yes. We three are all servants of the-"

"Good ol' US of A! Yep, that's us," Dean cut in with the cover before anything that might get them to rethink eating there again could be said.

"Good. 'Cause I told Patty he was an' that he ate like the giant he is and I don't like knowing I been tellin' tall tales. His food'll be ready right off. Enjoy!" And Ruth disappeared into the bowels of the diner's kitchen yet again.

When Dean looked back from the final tremble of the shutting door, his tablemate gestured toward the plate between them. "I thought, after such large hamburgers, we might share dessert," said Cas, the sheepishness returning.

"Hey, she brought us two forks; we don't got a choice," Dean observed. The wink at the end doing wonders to improve Cas's self esteem.

"Yes. Woe are we who have no other choice," Cas said, picking up the fork that Dean slid towards him.

"Woah, Cas. No need to bring The Bard into this booth. We're unlucky enough as it is." With that, there was a good amount of snickering through until every crumb of pie was gone and, since no one was around to see it anyway, fingers had been used to swipe the plate clean of melted vanilla ice cream.  
Good thing Dean'd washed his hands while he had the chance.

"Well, well. I ain't had anybody lick the plate clean in a _while_!" Ruth smiled at the 'hand in the cookie jar' looks trying to hide themselves in the booth. "'Round here, we take it as a compliment, so I'll pass it along to Patty. Here's the food fer your brother, and here's the check. Coffee and fries on the house," she said with a good natured wink. Setting the items at the edge of the table for anyone to grab at their leisure.  
"Just lemme know when ya'll're-"

"We all are ready now," Cas informed, before snatching up the check and almost overturning the booth table in his mad dash to be the first to stand.  
Especially impressive considering the table was bolted to the floor.  
Dean checked.

"Alright then, Eager Beaver, follow me," said the all stations diner employee who really wasn't anywhere near as freaked as she had every right to be. She in fact, looked rather endeared by Cas and his... unique nature.

Dean scratched his head as he watched the two hurry off with the check, took a moment to push all the dishes to one side of the table for easier bussing, and picked up the to-go bag, musing that just maybe Cas had been right: Maybe Ruth _did_ like them. Huh.

"-heard that paying is a powerfully romantic gesture. Hence my haste," Dean heard Cas saying as he took the corner and brought the cash register and the two very interesting people on either side of it into view.

"Well, I'd say, keep up the good work. 'Cause Sarge is lookin' e'en happier now'n when ya'll walked in," Ruth said in her patented stage whisper, leaning over the register toward Cas.

Snatching a glance over at a Dean making slow work of walking over, and who was pretending to not be listening, Cas copied Ruth's posture and said, "I appreciate your input. The subtleties of human interaction are often lost on me."

Both parties retook completely normal stances and the hostess handed Cas his change just as Dean reached them.

"Y'know, my daughter's always sayin' purdy much the same old thang you did just now?"

"I did not know that," said a Cas who looked as if he'd missed something important. "Who is your daughter?"

"Oh, nobody you'd know, but I _do_ have a picture of her right here," Ruth said, lips quirking as she pulled out a no less than five year old smartphone, which she gave a little shake. "She gave this to me so's we could text."

"That was very thoughtful of her."

"Yeah, sounds like a sweet kid," Dean threw in.

"Oh, she _is_ just the sweetest," she said, waiting for the phone to turn on and display a rest screen. "Here we go! Aaand here's the one. It's a picture of her at her weddin', all dolled up and lookin' fine. Wouldn't ya say?" Ruth asked as she turned the screen to face her guests. A beaming, younger version of herself obvious at the center of a charming beach ceremony.

"Is that the west coast?" Dean found himself asking. Seeing as no one was wearing a coat. And half of them no shoes.

"Yeah, she moved out to 'Frisco to go to school and ended up gettin' hitched right after college."

"Is the smiling one by her side her wife?" Cas asked around a fond smile. Dean had to double take at the little phone display at that.

"Yep. My sweetie found love and she's not lettin' go." Ruth turned the phone back around so she could see the picture. "'Course, she doesn't visit much neither," she added before turning the device off and stuffing it down a handy pocket.

"Your daughter, and someone else's daughter-"

"Look radiant together." Cas cut in, sensing Dean's shock. "We wish them, and you, all the happiness life can provide."

"Yeah. Absolutely," Dean managed. Soon as he blinked some sense back into his brain.

"Aw, ya'll _are_ kind. Thank you. And same to you too. 'Hope yer brother likes the food!"

And with a wave Ruth was bustling her way back across the diner to tend to her group of four. Dean and Cas turning to see themselves out and back to the Impala, that loyal four wheeler who'd waited patiently for the two of them to finish inside.

They put the take away by Cas's feet, shut the doors, and got back on the highway. This time taking their first drive home _from_ a not date, instead of _to_ one.  
Much less to be nervous about. Especially since they'd already had their first kiss. And no one was being dropped off. So there was no need for a 'goodbye'.

"I liked the food. I could see eating there again," Dean said. The first one to break up the hum of tires against a well maintained roadway.

"I too would enjoy a return visit."

"...Thanks, Cas," Dean started, fingers pinching the wheel just a bit when he felt eyes on him. "For... walking me through it and," he wetted his lips and sucked in a breath, "for holdin' my hand."

"You're welcome," came the soft reply. "I am only sorry the experience was as worrying for you as it was."

"Worried? _Me_?"

" **Very**." Said by a passenger who sounded like he wanted to keep things serious. Or perhaps didn't get that the driver was joking. Either way.

Dean cleared his throat, the closest noise to an acceptance he could make. It seemed to satisfy his not date, because the one trying to be nice to the steering wheel saw shotgun's head nod.

"I also wish to thank you, Dean. For taking me on this... excursion. And for putting up with my social inadequacies."

Dean tore his eyes from the straight shot of clear driving laid out in front of them and stuck Cas with a firm look, hoping it came across as reassuring.  
"You're not 'inadequate'. Don't let folks make you feel that way. You're Cas the flippin' _Angel_. You're **Perfect**. You've always been."

After a beat wherein Dean thought he might've seen the beginning of an angelic blush, he put his eyes front again. Just in time to take the slight bend in the road _smoothly_.  
After a few seconds, he started hoping he hadn't overstepped some unspoken boundary or Holy self-depreciation clause or-

"Dean, pull over," came a request in a voice huskier than it'd been all evening.

"What? _Why_?" Dean asked, confused and slightly concerned.

"Because, there's something I need to do and I don't want Baby getting hurt."

"Say no more," Dean said as he pulled to a smooth stop. Soon as the shoulder widened at the edge of city limits.  
"What's up?" He asked as he set the gear to park and cut off the engine. Flinching when he turned to look at Cas and found him sitting bare inches from him on the bench, eyes shrouded by the shadow the ceiling threw over the interior.  
"I want to feel your heart. May I?"

"My **heart**? Why the heck? Where'd that come from?"

"As close as we've been over the years, there has been very little physical contact between us. Your body is not known to me as 'my body'... wishes it to be." As Dean peered through the gloom, his view of a warm gaze sharpened just as the eyes giving it did. "I want to feel your heart beat in your rib cage. The pounding of it against the bones of my hand. I-"

"Whoa, hang on there. You just wanna touch my chest, not like, reach inside and give the sucker a massage, right? 'Cause this all sounds kinda _intense_."

"Though I could do that were it necessary, you are correct. All I want is to put my hand against your chest and listen to your heart."

Dean gave the notion a half second's thought before nodding. "Knock yourself out." Then he sat back against the bench and pulled the fronts of his jacket and over shirt back. Giving Cas an unobstructed view of his target. Suppressing a shiver when he felt fingertips ghosting across his pectorals, searching out the steady thump they'd come looking for.  
He _did_ shiver when he realized it was the same hand that had first held his earlier, unabashed in the broad light of a strange diner.

The roaming stopped and the fingers spread out to allow a palm room to come to rest, right above his ticker. Dean told himself to just keep breathing and that this couldn't be nearly as sensual, nor as funny as it felt.  
...Naw, he needed to say it. Too good an opportunity to pass up.  
"Y'know, this is basically second base right here." To the questioning look, he explained. "You fondling my chest? Me letting you? Nice ride. Sounds like the steamy climax to a hot night out, you ask me," Dean chuckled, contemplating the ceiling liner as Cas rearranged his hand more toward the center of his chest.  
He wondered to himself whether Cas could tell his pulse was elevated by the close quarters contact. Not sure the guy's ever taken note of his natural resting pulse.

"...Would you _like_ a steamy climax to this 'hot night out'?" Dean looked down to where Cas had plucked at the hem of his under shirt with his free hand. Digits poised as if eager to snake under and up his shirt; just waiting for the word.

Dean felt his pulse tick up another notch as the air caught somewhere between his lungs and the hand warming his chest. He licked his lips before asking, "Would _you_?"

Cas nuzzled closer and breathed his answer right next to the driver's ear. "Nothing would please me better."

"Well, in that case," Dean said, affecting a shrug.

Before Cas had the chance to decipher his meaning, Dean brought his close arm up and wound it around the Angel next to him on the front seat, pulling him closer even than they'd been in the armory.

From there, their lips found each other's and that inquisitive hand tickled Dean's stomach as it passed on its way to feel his heart, this time from underneath the pesky shirt.

Dean found one of his own hands doing a little recon along the ribs, spine, then shoulders of the body held close to his. The shirt over them being fully and securely tucked under a cinched belt doing nothing to dampen his mood as the taste of cinnamon and vanilla on Cas's lips reminded him of the dessert they'd split after dinner. On their first date.

Cas must have used a little angel voodoo to pull the seat lever, because without either of them breaking up the mood, the bench made a smooth slide as far back as it went and clicked in place. Leaving the slightly more compact of the two of them just room enough to pull himself up and over. One knee on either side of a hunter whose internal temperature rose a few degrees when he realized he was being straddled.

Barely finding the breath for it, Dean opened his mouth and whispered, "Save a horse." Surprised to a giggle when the weight nestling carefully over his lap quipped back:

"Ride a cowboy."

From this new vantage, Cas had to contort his neck in strange ways to steal the next kiss from his cowboy, but the way their chests brushed together, and the sound of a low, breathless moan from the back of a throat Cas loved being this close to, made it _very_ worth the trouble.  
Satisfying even.

The two jolted apart at the sound of a horn going off, Dean relinquishing a hand from where he had it clawed into a well formed shoulder blade to reach for his gun.  
A quick check out the windows proved there were _still_ no other cars within sight. So that left...

"Cas, was that your ass?"

"That was indeed my ass," managed the guy with the best seat in the house, right before he broke out in a peal of self deprecating laughter. Hands still bunched in and under the cotton of Dean's undershirt. "My apologies. To you _and_ the local wildlife."

"We spook a squirrel?" Dean asked, sparing another glance out the passenger side windows. Toward the tree line. Where he saw absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

"Among other things. The poor rodent fell right out of the tree," Cas informed, sounding as if he could barely get the words out around the chuckles he probably wasn't aware were making the whole Impala tremble.

Figuring now was as good a time as any for a semi-serious conversation, Dean moved the hand he had resting on the seat's leather, near his gun, and snaked it back where he'd been kneading his nails through the back panel of a button down. Under a trench coat it hadn't crossed his mind to help his lap guest remove.

"Hey, uh, you know the baseball euphemism for... what we were just doing? First base, second base, third base, etc.?"

"Huh. Yes I do," said a Cas who sounded surprised by his own knowledge base. "You mentioned earlier that we had 'fondled' our way onto second base?"

"Right. And y'know how we've kept this 'hot climax' above the waist?"

"Tasteful yet raunchy? PG-13 yet maddeningly sensual?"

"Heh. Yeah. That." Dean couldn't help the chuckle. Especially knowing Cas would feel it through his frame; still hunched over, trying to keep from banging his head into the ceiling as he straddled the driver.  
"This is perfect. Feels natural," he said, nudging his head higher to nuzzle his nose against Cas's. Loving the way the small, personal contact made his lap sitter shudder ever so slightly closer. "Like this is our pace and we don't gotta force anything."

After a pause in which Dean felt a forehead rested with care against his, Cas moved a hand from where he'd had it snaked up under a well worn shirt, exploring a chest he'd admitted wanting to get to know better, and laid it along a jaw he'd also been having fun exploring. "I've heard romances _can_ be more fulfilling when not rushed. Though," he leaned back just a little, to give his shiny new seat a better view of his expression, a conspiratorial glint in his eyes, "if you want to play shortstop, you're welcome to field my ass from running afoul of your steering wheel again."

Slowly moving the hand from that inviting shoulder blade, Dean cocked his head to make sure Cas was serious, and copped himself a feel of some high quality dress pants and a rump he could only describe as, "One sweet ass you got on you." When the little squeeze he gave to emphasize his meaning surprised an unsuspecting tuchus into a forward jolt, he felt the breath whooshed out of him by a crotch to the navel.  
Dean also felt, rather than heard, the impact of a head colliding with a heavy duty ceiling.  
"Sensitive too," he gasped out, soon as his diaphragm would let him pull a lungful back in.

"Apologies," Cas said, giving the top of his own head a rub. "It surprised me."

"Well, _I'd_ apologize, but a gentleman never refuses an invitation."

"No, it was pleasurable. Up until the bump," Cas said, resettling and letting the hand slide off his head.

"You can say that again," Dean said, brushing a sultry nose against Cas's once again. Loving the shudder it got him.

"Yes. I could. But I think I'd prefer not to repeat the unpleasant part."

"Heh. How 'bout the part leading up to that?" Dean asked, lolling his head back just enough to rest it on the bench's pseudo headrest.

" _That_ deserves repeating," Cas said as Dean watched him put one hand against the ceiling to keep track of exactly where it was, and the other back up the front of his rumpled under shirt.

"Awesome."

"We look ridiculous. Sam will notice our... zeal," said a disheveled Angel standing not ten feet from the bunker door. A hand on Dean's shoulder, keeping him from doing anything rash. Like opening the front door.

"Naw. I got enough practice with this sort of thing. Here; let me," Dean asked, setting down the take out and motioning for Cas to lower his head.

Rearranging a mop of hair that wasn't usually all that calm to begin with, Dean noticed his... not date being extremely quiet beneath his hands.  
"Something wrong?"

"No." That was a pretty short answer.

"Y'sure?" Dean checked, moving on to smoothing out the front of a rumpled shirt and the lapels of the familiar tan trench coat. "'Cause I'm all ears."

"...When you say you have 'practice' with this sort of thing, what do you mean?" Dean bit the inside of his mouth at what had to be a hint of jealousy in the halting question. 'Cause, while he sure as hell hadn't mean to cause such emotion, and had no plans of doing so again, it was touching to know that Cas cared enough _to_ feel it.

"'Have a lot of experience hiding things from my kid brother," Dean said, with as reassuring a rumble as he could manage.

"Oh. Not... steamy make out sessions with appropriately aged singles?" The Angel peeked up at him from under a once again completely normal looking brunet fringe. "After hamburgers?"

"Well," Dean searched for a wording he wouldn't kick himself for later. "Back before we met, I was a wild child. Got up to a lot of mischief, probably made a few mistakes, earned a little wisdom along the way."

"Like the importance of contraceptives and personal protection against infection and transmittable diseases?"

"Weirdly enough, I learned _those_ things in sex ed. High school was good for somethin' after all." Dean said, moving on to fixing his own hair and clothes. Stopping when he felt a warm hand cover his near his upturned shirt collar.

"Allow me. It's the least I can do," said alongside an expression he couldn't possibly say no to. So Dean lowered his arms and tried his best to stand still as he was fussed over same as he'd just done to the guy doing the fussing.

Collar and every extracurricular wrinkle fixed, the one time professional rolling stone grinned a tiny grin and offered a quiet, "Thanks, Cas."

Stepping back to admire his hard work, Castiel offered, "As a form of bonding and open affection, primates of every order will groom their familial group members."

"Huh. Well, thanks for the open affection?"

"And thank _you_ for the bonding experience. Here, at the diner, and..." Dean tracked Cas's slightly distracted gaze to the parked shadow of his most prized possession. "In your Baby."

Feeling his cheeks threatening to heat, Dean picked the takeaway off the ground where he'd set it well within the five minute rule guidelines ago, and said in as level a voice as he could, "You're welcome. We'll have to do it again."

"Which part?" Asked a date mate falling in beside Dean on a beeline for the bunker door. "Dinner? A drive? The _not_ driving?"

Dean chuckled, one hand holding his copy of an ancient key and undoing the lock. "All of it."  
A gentle hand on his forearm stopped Dean opening the door and he turned to Cas, leaving the air open for his date to say or ask what was on his mind.  
"Mph!" Nope. Dean was still the first to make a sound. But he cut himself some slack, considering the surprise nature of the kiss he'd been caught with.

"You're supposed to share a kiss when returning home from such a social outing, or am I mistaken?" Cas asked, seeming confused by the sound Dean had made.

"I got no idea where you dug up these sources of yours, but I like what yer hearin' from 'em," Dean informed in a low voice meant only for the guy who'd just kissed him.

Cas smiled, averting his eyes for a moment of self consciousness, before he brought himself up to his full height and, slow as dripping tar, pushed himself up against Dean, and Dean back against the bunker door.

Pinned. Unsure what might be expected of him, Dean stayed still and watched as Cas brought his head closer and closer. About the time he felt the back of his own go flush to the door, he realized there was a hand against his chest. Right above his heart.

Cas looked straight into his eyes, and Dean couldn't help but close them when he felt a nose nuzzle itself right against his. A pair of lips ghosting against his. A warm puff of breath making them tingle.

"My 'sources' also say, 'Always leave them wanting more.'" And like that, Dean was left leaning against a door all by his lonesome. Watching as Cas took a good step and a half back to smirk at him.  
Whatever Cas was pulling, it was working. 'Cause Dean was sure as hell left wanting _more_.

"Changed my mind," he said, flipping around to paw at the door handle, "your sources are turning you into a damn tease."

"They say that's a compliment," Cas whispered, from **very** close behind.

Dean shivered, bunker door handle halfway turned, and responded, "Oh, it's a compliment all right."

"Good. As it turns out, I like those," Cas said, brushing a hand across Dean's shoulders in a fond gesture. Probably smoothing some phantom reminder of their recent... activities.

"Yeah? Well, better get used to 'em."

"Is that a threat?" Cas mumbled, voice not an ounce serious.

"'Promise," Dean informed.

"I look forward to getting used to it." Dean did his best to let the purr running through the flirtation roll off him and retightened his grip on the doorknob.

"Tease." He complimented. Then, hoping his lips didn't look overused, Dean opened the door and invited his brother over for dinner. "Yo, Sam! Food's up!"

 **Wow. Looks like Dean had a really good reason to look excited when he got home. Who'd'a thunk?**  
 **Hope ya'll've enjoyed the story! If they're happens to be a fifth chapter, you'll certainly be the first to know, but for now, this should mark the conclusion of this wild ride!**  
 **Have a great winter!**  
 **~Anonymous**


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